


Teaching Poetry to Fish

by angelwithblackeyes



Series: Freedom is a length of rope [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Autistic Castiel (Supernatural), Blink and you'll miss it, Canon Compliant, Crowley is a Little Shit, Developing Relationship, Dom Crowley (Supernatural), Grace Kink, Greek Mythology - Freeform, M/M, Manipulative Crowley, Mythology References, Season/Series 06, Spanking, Sub Castiel, Time Travel, Torture, crowley/naomi - Freeform, crowstiel, for like a second, implied unrequited destiel, toxic relationship dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-10-19 13:50:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 48,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10641138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelwithblackeyes/pseuds/angelwithblackeyes
Summary: Season 6 Canon-Compliant D/s Crowstiel relationship fic. What happens offscreen while Dean and Sam are having their boy melodrama? Time travel! Spankings! Greek mythology! Kisses! Jealousy! Moral crisis! Bickering! Torture! Adorable pet names! Profound emotional toxicity! It'll all end in tears. And a temporary apotheosis, but you knew that already.





	1. Not a Victory March: A Prologue

Doubt, not Dean Winchester, had torn the path out from under him. Doubt, not Dean Winchester, was the faultline along which Castiel's bond with Heaven broke. But when Castiel could no longer feel God's love, God's intent, like a steady hand on his shoulder, it was Dean Winchester who replaced it – burning, fierce, distant Dean, with all his rage and love, all his fear and agony, all his freedom and uncertainty, became his North Star.

But a human is not a star, and in the lifetime of an angel, even stars go out in the blink of an eye.

Castiel, angel of the Lord, stood watching Dean Winchester pile fallen leaves into a plastic bag. It was oddly soothing to watch. One of those inexplicable human rules: leaves are only allowed to be in certain places. Castiel's heart ached keenly, like a recent bruise ringing from a blow. Dean Winchester – and everyone, really – had given everything they could and more for this, for this chance at a mere human life, a life full of things like gathering up dead leaves and putting them in different places and feeling satisfied and proud afterward. Castiel could sense the beauty in this life, could feel it like the living warmth from Dean's skin. He could feel the intensity of the love and joy Dean felt for Lisa and Ben. The man had earned it with his blood and his body and his soul and his grief and his screaming nightmares and his brother, and here was Castiel, his friend, about to ask him to give it away for nothing.

Castiel had come to Dean for help, for connection after his fight with Raphael, but he had never felt so unworthy of help or so disconnected from Dean as he did at this moment. He watched, wavered, ached.

“Castiel. Angel of Thursday. Just not your day, is it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The writing style and tone of the prologue is different from that of later chapters because of a change in focal character, so if this isn't your thing, you might still like later parts.
> 
> [Also, edited to add later: We are canon-compliant through season 11. Your humble author won't be watching 12 for a while, because she was spoiled on the events of the last episode, and so the fic won't take into account any Cas/Crowley interactions or reveals from that season.]


	2. Don't Feel Like Dancing

“Cas.” Crowley leaned back in his chair, gave him a slow, appraising once-over. The angel might be able to appear and disappear in his office on a whim, but that didn't mean Crowley couldn't play his home turf advantage. “Did you want something?” The edge of condescension and disapproval in his voice was an unnecessary touch, but worth it: Cas instinctively shifted and looked at the floor. Crowley savored a little burst of malicious enjoyment. Too easy.

“Have you made any progress with the abominations at the compound?” Cas met his eyes now, his stare level and seemingly unaffected by Crowley's raised eyebrows. Crowley, of course, knew better, but that was for another time.

“Abominations,” he scoffed. “You should talk, kitten.” Cas looked startled, but before he could process or respond, Crowley charged on. “And no. They're surprisingly durable, the lot of them. Can't say I'm not enjoying them, but informationally speaking they're worthless. Working on some other leads.”

“Such as?”

“Nothing worth reporting yet,” he hedged. “Don't worry about it, angel. Just take care of your end.”

“My end is fine,” Cas retorted stiffly.

“Don't I know it,” Crowley muttered, and poured himself some scotch.

“What?” He sounded exasperated.

“Don't you ever get tired of pretending to be such a... a bleeding choirboy?”

“I've never been in the choir. Music is not one of my – ”

Crowley sighed. “Are we done here?”

“I – ” Castiel tilted his head. “Is there somewhere else you need to be?”

He rolled his eyes and stood up from his chair. “No, kitten. Just the king of hell, after all. Nothing whatsoever on my schedule except for you.”

“That's good.” Castiel's relief sounded completely earnest. Crowley leaned on his desk and stared down at his papers for a moment. His sarcasm was wasted on Cas, and for a moment he wished he'd gotten a different angel to team up with, instead of the autistic angel of Thursday. Uriel maybe. He'd heard Uriel was funny.

Finally he turned and faced Cas squarely. Though distracting, the height difference did not hamper his efforts to stare down the angel effectively. “Castiel, if you don't stop stalling and explain why you're actually here – “

“I need another advance.”

Ah.

That dissolved Crowley's irritation instantly. A deal to be made. He didn't say anything at first. Let the angel stew in it. He let the pause draw itself out an extra beat. “Another advance,” he said, practically purring. “I see.”

“Things aren't... going well for me. Upstairs.”

“When are they ever?”

“And all this is taking much longer than I expected.” Crowley glanced at him sharply. “Through no fault of yours,” Cas added hastily. “I know these things take time.”

Crowley sat back down in his chair, ran his fingertip around the rim of his scotch glass, smiling, leisurely. No hurry if there was real business to be done. “How many souls do you need?” He took a drink.

“Twenty thousand.”

“Twenty thousand.”

“Yes.” Crowley just looked at him, his eyebrows raised. “I could make do with eighteen, nineteen thousand if you – “

“How exactly do you plan to earn twenty thousand more souls?”

Castiel squinted in confusion. The expression looked more at home on his face than any of the others he'd learned to mimic. Crowley suspected it might be the only one that came completely spontaneously. “Earn?”

“Earn!” He sighed and slammed the glass onto the desk. Cas's eyes widened slightly at the sound. “What exactly do you plan to give me, angel, that's worth an advance that big?”

“I – I suppose – “

“Yes?” 

“I suppose we could adjust the eventual proportions such that you would accrue interest – ”

“No. Not interested.”

The fingers of Cas's right hand twitched slightly, plucking at the fabric of his trenchcoat, the unconscious action the only movement in his otherwise still body. He got that way when he was nervous, holding himself like a perching bird. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I don't want to quibble about percentages like some human accountant. Find something better to give me.”

“I – I don't – “ Cas shook his head helplessly, the squint taking on shades of wounded-puppy bewilderment. Crowley hid a smile by taking a sip of scotch. “Crowley, I don't know what you want from me.”

“Well, let's start with a little bloody gratitude, given that you're asking me to pull your fine feathered arse out of the fire at my own expense. Again.” The look on Cas's face was either the prelude to an unnecessary correction about angelic anatomy or an attempt to process the request for gratitude. Crowley continued. “After that, well. You have angelic weapons up the jacksie – “ Cas opened his mouth to respond and Crowley held his hand up. “Figure of speech.” He looked Cas up and down, then added, “I assume. You have those fancy blades of yours. You can do a fair bit of smiting.”

“Crowley, I'm fighting a war.”

“Yes, well, so am I," he said, getting testy. "You're asking me to give up a lot of firepower. You've gotta give me something in exchange – “

“I can't just hand angelic weapons over to a demon – ”

“Please,” Crowley spat. “Don't play the pious hero with me, kitten.” He stood up, and Cas took a step back.

“That's not – ”

Crowley took a breath, then straightened his coat. “Come back when you can quit wasting my bloody time.” He turned on his heel and stalked out the door, and he let the door slam behind him for good measure.

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

“It is 8:08 PM on October 15. His infernal majesty Crowley welcomes you to his high court. Your motions have been entered into today’s order of business. Step forward when your name is called.” The white-haired demon, whose name Crowley forgot every five minutes, read off the first name. A young man stepped forward looking very nervous, genuflected awkwardly, and began to read a petition to allow crossroads demons in a certain region to carry weapons in case of what they called ‘hostile activity.’ Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose and wondered who decided this needed to be brought to the king of hell for approval. “Yes, fine,” he interrupted. “Next.”

The parade of badly worded and nervously delivered petitions continued until Crowley finally snapped “Enough!” and the white-haired demon, seemingly unsurprised, flipped a few pages on his clipboard and showed Crowley. He nodded.

“We’ll be moving on to convictions.” A few sighs, presumably from those who were still waiting on their petitions, but Crowley glared around the room and it fell quiet quickly.

“Bring in the first group.” A handful of demons filed in, followed by a guard, looking some combination of apprehensive and sheepish.

“Minor infractions.” The white-haired demon read off a list of names, and one by one each of the demons stepped forward. “Convicted of misconduct reducing soul intake, resulting from incompetence or ignorance.”

“Kennel duty," he pointed at the first group, who were first offenders, "Compound duty," at a second cluster, and then at the intractables: "Winchesters. Six months or until your death, whichever comes first.” They filed out.

“Next. Major infractions.” This was a more interesting list, even to Crowley. Most of them had defied a superior in some way, seeking their own gain at the expense of Hell’s. He sentenced a few of them, executed two on the spot, and gave one a promotion. The ripple of murmuring and chuckles at that was, he had to admit, somewhat gratifying.

When he had run out of interesting punishments to inflict, he heard a few reports. He didn't listen to most of what numbers had to say – slow growth in sectors with heavy angelic presence, how shocking. Infernal Research Division requested a private session in order to report their recent findings. As soon as the room was cleared of all but the most trustworthy demons, a researcher named Al stepped forward with a grin on their face and a heavy book in their hands. "Sire, I have one word for you: dragons." Crowley raised his eyebrows a moment in skepticism, but Al's sisters and fellow researchers, Maggie and Tiff, were practically buzzing with enthusiasm. It was unlike the research division to get this excited about things without proper evidence to back them up. He nodded, gestured approvingly.

"Tell me more."

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

“Hello, Crowley.” The angel's voice sounded completely steady and a little annoyed. Not a good start.

Rather than stopping to acknowledge him, Crowley swept past, so Castiel had to tag along behind him to catch up. It only took a couple of steps. Damn those long legs. “What?”

“You asked me for an offer.”

“No, you asked me for a loan.”

“I... I'm not sure what the distinction is, but I brought you – “ Cas was fumbling around inside his jacket. Crowley relented and stopped walking. Finally, Cas pulled his hand out of his jacket with a flourish.

He was holding a stick. A small, old, wooden stick.

“That's...” Crowley squinted, then blinked and shook his head. Castiel probably wasn't playing a joke. “A stick.”

“It's the Staff of Moses.”

“What, is it cold?”

“What? Why? It's... It's room temperature.”

“I seem to remember the Staff of Moses being... full-sized.”

“Ah. Yes.” Cas looked chagrined. “It's a long story.”

“I don't care.” Crowley held his hand out for the staff. “Does it work?”

“It works on a limited scale.”

“What does that mean?”

“It's part of the staff. It works the same as the full staff, but smaller.”

“So what, it… rains tiny frogs? Causes acne? Water turns to Kool-Aid? What?”

“I don't know what that means. It has a focalized effect on one enemy or on a limited number of enemies at a time, rather than on whole cities. But it's a very powerful angelic weapon.”

“I see.” Crowley didn't comment on the angel's apparent change of heart regarding the appropriateness of giving heaven's weapons to demons. “Hand it over, then. Let's see what the old divine shaft can do.”

“Staff of Moses,” Castiel corrected conscientiously, finally giving Crowley the stick.

“Right,” Crowley agreed, and with a grin, he snapped his fingers and disappeared to the compound.

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

By the time Crowley had finished testing out the new toy, Castiel looked exhausted and more than a little green. He had not objected to Crowley's use of the thing on assorted demons and monsters imprisoned at the compound, simply waited, his jaw set and his eyes pained. In the back of his mind Crowley could sense Cas repeating his justifications to himself – this is a war – we can't afford sympathy – these are abominations – to stave off his instinctive anguish and disgust at what he was watching. Crowley, on the other hand, was in his element and having the time of his life. He relished the horror and screaming and carnage as the staff drew unnatural, nightmarish things out of the creatures' flesh, the helpless wailing and sobbing of what had once been fierce predators as he discovered increasingly subtle distinctions in his use of the weapon to hurt and terrorize them. He suspected, faintly, that his enjoyment bothered Castiel more than anything else. Angels had a particular stick up their asses about pleasure; they could justify just about any sin or atrocity so long as they endured it with grim forbearance, but heaven forbid anyone enjoy themselves.

Crowley, fortunately, had no such compunctions.

Turning away from the truly impressive mess he'd made of three vampires simultaneously, he snapped his fingers and relocated to Hell proper. Castiel appeared a few moments later, ruffled and agitated. “And?” he demanded.

“Fifteen thousand souls,” Crowley replied. He wouldn't have lowballed the offer quite so far, but Castiel's tone annoyed him. He was the one asking for help, after all.

“I told you, I need at least eighteen,” Castiel said, folding his arms. “It's not negotiable.”

“The stick isn't worth eighteen.” Crowley turned away.

Castiel went very still for a moment. When he spoke again, there was anger in his voice that verged on malice. “The Staff of Moses is a weapon of heaven. I should never have offered it to a demon in the first place.”

Crowley spun on the angel, fury at his high-and-mighty attitude boiling up. “Well, too bad, kitten, because I'm the one holding all the cards!”

“Give it back, Crowley. I won't tell you again.”

“Take it,” he spat, throwing the staff at the angel. It clattered at his feet. “A lot of good it'll do you without the souls. Sure, Raphael will restart the apocalypse, but it'll almost be worth it to see him shove that bloody stick up your sanctimonious arse!”

Castiel didn't move for a moment, his eyes ablaze, his jaw clenched and twitching. He spoke haltingly, in a low voice. “It's worth more than fifteen thousand souls, Crowley.”

Crowley held his ground. “Right now it's worth whatever I'll give you for it.”

“I won't take less than eighteen.”

“Fine. Eighteen. But you owe me, angel.” Crowley flicked the staff from the floor to his hand, then vanished. Plenty of places in hell where no pretty-boy angels could storm in making demands.


	3. It's a Bitch Convincing People to Like You

Crowley blinked the sunlight out of his eyes and found himself standing on the grass in the middle of a zoo. The smell was unmistakable. He looked around. The place was mostly empty, probably because it was so hot the asphalt was soft underfoot. In the enclosure in front of him, the adult goats were taking shelter where they could in the shade. Several kids romped around, kicking at each other and springing on and off the dusty tires and plywood ramps and fake boulders. A little white one tumbled into another, whose nubby horns made him look endearingly like a little Halloween devil. Both splashed into the water bucket, overturning it with a crash into the dust. Castiel stood in the middle, toweringly tall and still compared to the goats that played carefree around him. He looked a bit like a scarecrow, all stiff and lanky with his long coat flapping in the wind. As he approached, Crowley heard his low voice, the words inaudible but the tone unmistakable; he was earnestly engaged in talking to a spotted kid insistently chewing and pulling on the hem of his jacket and a brown billygoat who seemed intent on eating his sleeve. Of course: all the armies of heaven at war, assassins hunting both of them, and the angel was at the petting zoo, talking to goats. Crowley rolled his eyes.

He walked as far as the fence and then paused, less than impressed with the smell and the idea of fraternizing with barnyard animals in his favorite suit. “ – of course I can't say much for their flavor,” Castiel was saying, shaking his head thoughtfully, “but surely the nutritional value – ” Crowley resisted smiling and cleared his throat. 

“Castiel. ...Goats. I'm sorry to interrupt your meeting, but we have urgent business to discuss.”

Castiel turned, sighed, then murmured polite apologies to the goats, who followed a little way, disinclined to let go of the coat. He gently disengaged himself and stepped over the fence.

“These goats are so satisfied with their lives.” He nodded toward them. “The little one, very curious about my jacket. For some reason she kept asking if it was real grass, and I – I just tried to explain – there's real grass right over there, but – she kept trying to taste the coat. Then her sister, that one with the, with the very springy fur – ”

Clearly he was content to just keep talking about the goats. Crowley held up his hand. “Cas. Please. Business.”

“Oh. Well, what?”

“Can we,” Crowley gestured in the direction of away. “Can we go somewhere...”

“Where?”

“Somewhere else.” Crowley brushed his coat off impatiently. “Somewhere with fewer farm animals. And flies.”

“Why?” Castiel squinted, his eyes filling with suspicion. Crowley sighed.

“Because. As a rule, the king of hell doesn't do business at petting zoos.”

“Well, that's no problem. This isn't a petting zoo. It's a regular zoo. Big cats, bears, giraffes... There's a tiger over there? Very unhappy. Wants to eat all the humans who pass. Thinks about it all the time. This one in the stroller, that one with the striped shirt, and so on, all day long. So I tried to tell him – ”

“Castiel.”

“But the goats are happy enough, which is why I like it better over here. But did you know, they get all their food from these pellets? They're very efficient, and such sensible – “

“Dean Winchester is going to find out his grandfather is working for me,” Crowley interrupted irritably. “Can we focus, please? Not on the goats?”

Castiel wheeled on him. He would have to lead with Dean Winchester in the future, Crowley thought bitterly. “You said you had that under control,” Cas said. His eyes flicked to Crowley's, all accusations.

Crowley started walking, toward where signage indicated a little butterfly garden with a koi pond. At least it was better than the goats. “Circumstances have changed.”

“I agreed to let you raise Samuel – “

“ _Let_ me?”

“ – based on your guarantee that you would keep all of this... mess away from Dean.”

“I did my due diligence. But he's about to start digging into Samuel's resurrection, and we both know where that trail leads.”

A peacock strutted out in front of them, followed by a peahen and some chicks. The peacock squared off in the middle of the path and fanned out its tail feathers, staring aggressively at them. They paused to let the little family scurry past. Castiel turned to Crowley. “How could you possibly know what Dean's about to do?”

“Let's just say… a little birdie told me.”

Castiel cocked his head to the side. “What bird?” he demanded.

Crowley sighed. “A spy, angel. I have spies. Spying.” Castiel gave him an uncomprehending glance. “King of hell,” he said, slowly, and pointed to himself. “Remember?” Cas looked away, biting his lip. They began walking again. The butterfly garden was surprisingly vibrant, the flowers especially fragrant in the glare of the sun.

“And these spies, they told you...” Cas shook his head.

“Ah. Well. Seems Moose isn't acting like his usual, unbearably maudlin self,” Crowley said. He gave Castiel a sidelong look, raising his eyebrows. “One of those nasty side effects of not having a soul.”

Castiel frowned, putting his hands in his pockets and wrapping his coat a bit tighter around him. “Oh.”

“So you see, if you hadn't gone and bodged it with the whole” – he waved his hand – “heroic rescue business, we wouldn't be having this conversation.”

Castiel just looked away. “What else did this bird tell you?”

“They're not – never mind. Squirrel is suspicious. Any moment now, the Winchesters are going to have one of their boy-melodrama scenes, Samantha's gonna spill her guts, and next thing you know, the Hardy boys will be knocking on heaven's door looking for answers.”

They had reached a little wooden bridge over the shallow koi pond. Castiel stopped and leaned against the railing, looking down at the crowding fish brimming up below. “I can... I can mislead them.” He winced even as he said it.

“Can you?” Crowley folded his arms. “You're not exactly a first-rate actor, kitten. No offense. And anyway, even if you do manage to convince Dean that Sammy's soul is intact, how long do you think you can throw them off the trail?”

“Well, what do you want me to do?”

“Tell them his soul is missing. Don't tell them why. Be your usual... obliging self. Let them figure it out. All I ask is that you keep me updated.”

“What about your... small birds?”

“My black-eyed boys will play their part. You play yours. Tell me when they call you, tell me when you all go visit Grandpa, and tell me if Moose and Squirrel figure out who's pulling the strings.”

“What about Sam's resurrection? If they discover that I was behind it – ”

“Don't worry about that, angel. I'll take that hit for you.” Crowley smiled a little at Castiel's surprised, suspicious gratitude. “You can owe me a favor.”

“All right.”

“So what is it that you're going to do?”

“Didn't we just – “

“Yes. And I want you to tell me again, so I can trust that you understand the plan. Strategy isn't exactly your strong suit, kitten. Humor me.”

Castiel sighed and folded his hands in front of him as though he were giving a recitation. “I'm going to tell the Winchesters, when they ask, that Sam's soul is missing. I'll help them when they ask me for help. And I'll keep you informed of their progress.”

“Good.” Crowley looked Castiel up and down, gave a nod, and started to walk again. “Don't make the lies too elaborate. In fact, try not to lie at all, if you can help it. Just don't say more than you have to.” Cas didn't answer. Crowley turned to look at him and found – nothing. The angel was gone.

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

The Research Division was a surprisingly colorful place, for all that it was reputed to be ruled with an iron fist by the Furies. Of course, Megaera, Tisiphone, and Alecto - or Maggie, Al, and Tiff, as they were calling themselves nowadays – weren't much for maintaining their once–formidable image when the situation no longer called for it, and seemed happiest when they were in with their books and codices and computers. A gaggle of interns bustled past, all colorful hair and spiked bracelets, barely noticing him, whispering to each other about a Sumerian find, and older researchers sat scattered throughout the maze of tables, shelves, and desks. Everyone here seemed more focused on their jobs than the demons in the upper levels, Crowley had to admit. Still, he winced at the state of the place, tottering stacks of books and arcane networks of post-it notes and coffee mugs everywhere without so much as a coaster in sight.

Finally Tiff came around a corner, looking absolutely beside herself, curly black hair escaping its ponytail and eyeliner a mass of smudges, her hands fluttering around like panicked birds as she rattled out a rapid string of apologies. "I'm terribly sorry, sire. Have you been waiting long? There was an – event in – we had the last of the – but I'm so sorry for the delay –"

"Just show me what you found."

"What we found?" She glanced around frantically.

"...about the dragons, Tiff."

"Oh! The dragons! Yes! We know where to find the spell to summon them. The dragons."

Crowley stared at her expectantly. "And?" he prodded after a moment. 

"Well, it's in Mesopotamia." She gestured as though Mesopotamia were hanging in the air behind her right shoulder. "I mean, it was. You can – could? can? – find it in Mesopotamia. That's the best way, I think. We think. There are other instances where it surfaced, but we have been exhaustively through the archives and, well, we all agreed, that one looks the most promising. Would you like to see the other instances? We ruled most of them out. Maggie has a very nice little binder somewhere."

Crowley was getting slightly dizzy listening to her, which was frustrating. He held up a hand for quiet. "Just tell me what I need to do."

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~  


Crowley ran his hands through his hair and pressed his palms to his temples. “We’ve been over this, Castiel. The spell is absolutely necessary to finding purgatory.”

“But getting that spell – Crowley.” Castiel took a breath. “Time travel… it isn’t like a rabbit.”

“Sorry?”

“Time travel. It’s not like a rabbit. You understand.”

“No, I _don’t_ bloody well understand! What do you mean, a rabbit?”

“I can’t just pull time travel out of my hat.” Castiel gestured. Crowley stared at him. “A metaphorical hat, of course. I don’t have an actual hat.” He shifted from foot to foot. “I – I could get an actual hat if that would help explain.”

“No. You don’t need to get a hat.” Crowley covered his face with his hands. “All right. So you can’t pull time travel out of a hat. It’s not a rabbit. Fine.”

“It’s hard, Crowley. And it’s dangerous. Even taking the Winchesters back thirty-five years had risks, and the distance you’re talking about… it’s unfathomable. We could be lost forever, or scattered across – ”

“All right! I get the picture.” Crowley sighed. “What do you need to make it happen?”

Castiel frowned. “I’m telling you I don’t think it can happen at all.”

“But if it could. To jump back that far. What would make it easier?”

Castiel sighed, turned, and sat down. “I suppose if we could combine angelic time travel with a blood spell, and – I’d need even more power than I already have. And where would we obtain the blood of a descendant of Medea?”"

Crowley grinned. “King of Hell, remember?"

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

Crowley and Castiel watched a young man, not much older than a teenager, paint a complicated sigil painstakingly on the wall of the lab in his own blood. "What did you offer him in exchange?" Cas asked Crowley in a low voice.

"Mind your business, kitten," Crowley replied. He stepped forward and placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. "About done, Thomas?"

"I think so."

"Good." Crowley snapped his fingers and Thomas's skin lit up with script, as though it had been tattooed with glowing ink. "Pleasure doing business with you." With another snap, the script vanished entirely. Thomas glanced at Crowley in surprise and then disappeared.

"That's the last of the components. We should do this while the blood is still fresh."

Crowley offered Castiel his arm. "Then by all means, partner."

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

The sweet, heady scent of lotus trees in bloom mingled with the faint aroma of burning meat overcame Crowley the moment his feet touched the ground. Aside from the rushing of the clear, glistening stream to their left, the whirr of insects, and the whisper of the wind in the leaves, everything was silent. They stood in a grove almost impossibly lush with vegetation, vines of fruit and flowers growing over the rocky mouth of a cave. Castiel's forehead wrinkled. "Is this right?"

"I'm not the one who brought us here, ducky. You tell me."

Castiel looked around uneasily. "It should be."

"But?"

Castiel looked at the cave for a long moment, then turned to Crowley. "We should go now."

"Go where? We're in bloody ancient Mesopotamia, I don't exactly have GPS."

"She should be nearby." Cas started walking. Crowley followed, shrugging.

Before long they heard the humming rhythms of human activity. They walked toward the sound, and the scent of burning meat grew stronger as they went. A path led to another clearing, this one larger. Little clusters of people milled around, talking in low voices; altars smoked and dark-haired girls braided flowers into wreaths for sacrificial animals. "There. That's her." Crowley pointed. A striking woman in a brilliantly red gown sat quietly surrounded by a cluster of silent women, separate from everyone else.

"How do you know?"

Crowley shot Cas a withering glance. "Trust me." They all wore linen of incredibly fine quality, woven with complicated patterns, expertly draped and folded, pinned with brightly polished brooches. Crowley made a note to take a closer look when he had the opportunity, see if he could trade for a few meters to take back home for a summer suit.

Castiel shifted uncomfortably beside him. "Are you going to go and talk to her?"

"Not yet." No point in making themselves visible in front of all these people. As if on cue, Medea turned and looked directly at Crowley. She squinted and blinked rapidly as if trying to see something out of focus. "We should go. Wait til she's finished with... whatever this is."

Castiel gave Crowley an incredulous look. "You haven't been listening to the others."

"What?"

"All these humans are here for the same reason. They're waiting for the goddess."

"The goddess?"

"The goddess of the cave."

Crowley was becoming irritated, but before he could press Castiel to stop talking nonsense, Medea stood up, her dark eyes still fixed on the place where Crowley stood. Her retinue gathered their things, and they swept out of the clearing without speaking a word to anyone.

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

"Show yourself." Medea's voice was soft and deadly, but no less imperious for that. She stood in front of her house, tall and fearless, a bone carved with ancient sigils in her steady hand. Her face was in shadow from the setting sun, but Crowley could feel her eyes piercing him even without seeing. "You've been following us since the sacred grove, you accursed thing, and if you don't show me your face I will cast you back to whatever nightmare you came from."

Crowley stepped forward and into view, already smiling, smooth. "Hello, darling." Castiel appeared to her a moment later, but he stayed where he was, his hands folded before him.

Medea stepped back, wary. Her shoulders were tense. "What do you want?"

"Straight to business. I respect that."

She glanced at Castiel, but then kept her eyes on Crowley. She was pointing the bone at him like a weapon, which he thought it probably was. "If you did, you would speak your piece instead of trying to charm me with idle prattle."

Crowley held up his hands, conciliatory, no sudden movements. "I'm here to propose a deal."

"Go on."

"You're a smart woman. More than that, you know things."

Medea's eyes flashed. "I know that a man often sweetens his words with flattery to hide the taste of poison. Speak plain."

Crowley glanced back at Castiel involuntarily. He was looking at Medea, his head tilted. Crowley looked back at her. "I want you to teach me to summon dragons."

She laughed. "Not a chance." She turned as though to walk away.

"Not even if I can bring back, say, the children you killed?"

She stopped in her tracks, then turned back to him, her eyes burning like coals. "Leave now. Or I'll make you leave."

"Your majesty," Castiel said. Crowley turned to him, surprised, his mouth open to answer, but Castiel's eyes were on Medea.

"Yes?"

Cas approached Medea and dropped to one knee close beside her. Crowley raised his eyebrows. "I'm sorry my partner's words caused you pain."

Medea winced and offered her hand to help him to his feet. He stood and stepped back, meeting her eyes. "That pain isn't yours to apologize for."

"We're here because we are desperate." Crowley frowned. Not the best way to start a negotiation.

She looked up at him, touched his cheek, then withdrew her hand like she'd burned it. "What are you?"

"What I am has no name in your language."

She nodded, thoughtfully. "Why are you desperate?"

"There's a war. A terrible war, among... things like me. I'm a – general."

She shook her head. "No. _Why_ are you desperate?"

"People I – people I care for are in danger."

"And this... thing?" The glance she gave Crowley was hateful.

"He's helping me save them."

She paused and lowered her head in thought, then pointed the bone at Crowley again. "He leaves. You, I'll teach."

“Yes, majesty. Thank you.”

“Now hold on – ”

“Crowley, go.”

“I’m the one who – ”

“Crowley.” Cas had raised his voice slightly and the word was like a door slamming. Crowley stepped back involuntarily.

“Fine.” He gave the back of Castiel’s head a frosty glare before turning and transporting himself back to the grove. Whatever the witch thought she was going to teach the angel, for his own sake and for Castiel’s he hoped it wasn’t complicated. In the meantime, he could always find some hell to raise.


	4. Say You'll Remember Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for important content warnings.

A brilliant glow poured from the mouth of the cave, filtering through the trees to the clearing where the humans were gathered. It was dark there, and the fires leapt high and fragrant with oils and meat. The worshippers had fallen into a hush, except for some young women who were singing a sort of humming, rising song and playing rattles. Something stepped out of the forest, a figure radiant with light, a presence that simultaneously soothed and intoxicated. The light softened until the face of the goddess appeared. She wore a human vessel, but behind the eyes and the smile there was something ineluctable and familiar. Crowley frowned and stepped back, further into the shadows.

She walked through the crowd, flowers springing up in her footsteps, a low murmur following her like the train of a gown. She brushed the outstretched hands of her devotees with her own, and their faces went blank and soft with relief, as though a pain had lifted. Crowley was becoming distinctly uncomfortable. He began to walk away, but his haste outstripped his stealth: she turned, and as her amber eyes shone through the darkness, he knew that she saw him.

With a wave of her hand, she dispersed the humans. They drifted away in all directions, all at once and silent, like dandelion seeds blown by a child. The fires went out, only the smoke remaining, illuminated golden by the light of her. “Stranger,” she said, extending a slender hand to him, graceful as a dancer. “Come.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows. “I,” he said, then stopped. She was smiling, and the glow faded, leaving only the moonlight on her deep brown skin and long, glossy black hair. “Do I… know you?” Something was so disconcertingly familiar about her eyes, her smile, even the light.

“Come with me,” she said again, and glided off into the forest toward her grove. He followed, more than a little out of sorts about being told what to do by strange women living in caves.

Of course, when he actually got there, it became clear that she wasn’t living in the cave at all. He stepped into a damp tunnel and found himself in a palatial room full of light and open space, as though he had stepped through a curtain; he stopped for a moment and took a few steps back and then forward, testing the illusion. She stood in the middle of the room, watching him, absently arranging a white swath of fabric at her shoulder, adjusting the small gold and pearl pin holding it in place.

He took a moment to compose himself. His hands in the pockets of his jacket, he stepped toward her, searching her face, trying to place it. “Lovely home,” he offered guardedly. “A bit lacking in curb appeal, but...”

She shrugged and smiled. “The forest is all well and good for the pilgrims, but for myself I prefer the finer things.” A mischievous crinkle around her eyes when she said that. Pilgrims was an oddly out of place word, and something tugged at the corner of his mind.

“So, you’re not… a goddess,” he guessed.

“Did you think I was?” She tilted her head, furrowed her brow slightly, still smiling. All at once, he knew.

“You’re –”

“An angel. Yes.”

“So we’ve met, then.”

“Not yet,” she said, folding her hands in front of her. “But you’re – not yet yourself, are you?” She raised her eyebrows and looked him up and down, thinking. “You’re not meant to be for another… thousand years.” She stepped back toward a table and some couches in the corner, the table arrayed with spotless silver and the couches draped with fine cloth.

“I’m the king of hell, love.” He gave a noncommittal shrug. “I go where and when I please.”

“The king of hell, yet you travel with one of my brothers.”

“A lot can change in a couple of millennia, sweetheart.”

“You can call me Lethe.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows. “Lethe? Forgetfulness. Not a conventional name for your kind.”

“Not a conventional angel,” she said, and lay down on the long couch beside the table, the white fabric of her dress clinging to the curve of her hip. She gestured at the couch beside hers, and Crowley sat. She smiled.

 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

 

Castiel tried to focus on the task at hand, but his mind kept returning and returning to the moment when Medea had spun on Crowley, her rage crackling around her like electricity, and the anguish in her eyes when she told him to go. He set down the pestle and looked across the table at her, where she stood shaking ingredients from little glass jars into a linen bag. “May I ask you a question?”

She put the stopper carefully back in the jar she was holding and looked up at him, smiled absently. “Did you finish up with the silphion?”

Castiel looked down at the mortar, sprinkled the ground herb into the bronze bowl, and showed the mixture to her. She nodded.

He set the bowl and the tools aside, leaning forward, twisting his hands. “I don’t want to be presumptuous, but you’ve been so kind and so patient, and I… if there’s any way we can help you, I don’t want to leave without…” He shook his head and glanced at her. She was very still, her head bowed now, thinking. Finally, she seemed to make a decision.

“I wasn’t the one who killed them.”

“You don’t owe me an exp-- ” She held up her hand, and he stopped and waited for her to finish.

“I married young – he gave me reason to regret it before we even lost sight of Colchis, when my brother --”

Her words caught in her throat, and she closed her eyes. Castiel sat back and nodded. She paused to compose herself.

“The years on Corinth were hard, but when my husband found a new bride – not more than a girl, the poor thing – I tried to warn her father. It wasn’t as though he cared, as though he even believed a witch from some far-off island over the hero of the Argonauts, but my husband… I thought at least he would spare the children. That maybe without me there, they at least would be safe.” She smiled bitterly. “Never underestimate a man’s cruelty when he doesn’t get what he wants. 

“When I took them from that accursed house, I thought we had finally escaped him. At least I could bury them in ground he would never pollute with his presence. But lies have wings.” She turned away and began arranging the jars back on a shelf. “When I realized I would never be free of him and what he did to my children, I came here to visit the goddess, in hope that she would relieve my sorrows.”

“The goddess...” Cas frowned a little.

“Lethe. Those she favors, she allows to forget. Some people believe that even the fruit from her grove can make a man forget his obligations, which of course is a convenient tale for some. For me, it's done nothing. Every day I bring her gifts, but so far I have never earned so much as a glance from her.”

She paused, gazing off with troubled eyes. He reached across the table and laid his hand on hers. “I can give you what you’re looking for. If you’re sure it’s what you want.” She glanced into his eyes, surprise and wary gratitude mingled in hers.

“That easily?”

He nodded. “Human memory is not as hard to alter as, for instance, mine would be.”

She took his hand and sat down. “If you mean what you say, I have one more request.”

 

 ~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

 

Lethe lifted a bowl filled with lotus-fruit. They looked like small plums, but translucent orange, like fiery jewels in the torchlight. “Please. It’s not the underworld, you won’t have to come back every year if you swallow a few pomegranate seeds.” She offered him the bowl. He took it, and her hand brushed his, her touch a sudden jolt of heat and softness against his skin. The fruit, swelling with juice, burst in his mouth with an incredible delicate sweetness. He took a handful and set the bowl back down.

“I don’t imagine I’ll be coming back at all. Your brother – ”

“Yes, I know.” She sipped her wine. “The question is, what are you going to do with your time here?” She passed him the cup, and this time her touch lingered, deliberate. She met his eyes.

He reclined against the headboard of the kline, giving her an appraising look, a smile playing on his lips. “Well, I’ve got plenty of wicked ideas.”

“I have my own.” She smiled at him, and then they were tumbling together, tangled up with each other, something delirious and wordless with no need of thought. She climbed on top of him, her hands fast and deft even with the unfamiliar clothes, and he let her take the lead.

Crowley was jolted back to reality by a low, gravelly voice in the doorway. “Naomi?” In a blink, the angel was gone, and Crowley was greeted by the sight of Castiel, wide-eyed, clutching some parcels to his chest. Crowley snatched his clothes up and covered his nakedness, then berated himself for acting like some surprised co-ed from a sitcom instead of the king of hell. This undignified behavior had fortunately been lost on Cas, who had averted his eyes and was staring at the floor as though its colorful tiles were very shocking. Crowley noticed the faint trace of a blush under the scruff, distracting him for a moment. “We should… we should go now,” Cas ventured.

Crowley put his pants on, stood and folded his jacket in front of him to conceal his stubbornly unflagging arousal. “Fine.”

 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

 

Back in Hell's research division, Crowley gathered up the books, making sure all the notes were in order for the summoning ritual. Cas was gazing off into the middle distance, fidgeting with one of the parcels, a little red linen bag. “I just don't understand why Naomi... you're a _demon._ Why would -”

“Enough,” Crowley snapped irritably. “What did Mother of the Millennium give you?”

“Ingredients.” Cas eyed him. “You know, she didn't do anything to the children.”

“Of course she - wait - what?” 

“She didn't kill them. Her husband did.” Castiel set the parcels down on the table and began opening them carefully. “She wanted so badly to forget what happened to her, but she asked me to remember. So I'm remembering.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “I'm moved. Really. What... the hell are you doing?” Cas had opened a cupboard and started pulling out assorted office supplies. 

“I need a bronze bowl,” Cas said, still rifling through the cupboard as though he would find one if he just made a big enough racket. Crowley sighed and began to help with preparations for the ritual. The sooner they finished summoning the dragons, the sooner they could get back to avoiding each other and hopefully never speak of this again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, this carries a trigger warning for implied domestic violence and child death.  
> Second, this chapter deals largely with Greek mythology and Crowley's M-F spite-fling - so it isn't probably looking like what you signed up for when you came to a Crowstiel fic! I PROMISE it's coming, the characters are just being ornery with your humble author and her plotlines.


	5. Magic Madness Heaven Sin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for content warnings.

This was not how Crowley had envisioned Castiel ending up in his bed. Circumstances conspired, et cetera.

Crowley had been flush with victory. Despite their generally irritating attitudes and their initial failures, the human hunters had dragged in an alpha, the first vampire, one of the very oldest monsters. The dragons he and Cas had summoned were, as far as he knew, totally unaware of whose intervention had brought them back and well on their way to completing the ritual to raise Eve, and an alpha would be sure to yield useful information, maybe even hurry the whole process along. He had gotten the call while cleaning up after some experiments involving iridium and shapeshifters, and as he reveled in the good news, Castiel had shown up. He was splattered with blood. Crowley couldn't tell how much of it was Cas's blood, but from the way he immediately slumped against the wall, he guessed some of it must be.

“Castiel. Nice of you to drop in.” Crowley waved out the underling who was helping clean his tools. He approached Cas and crouched down to look at his face. The angel was wrecked, but conscious. Crowley smiled. “Hello, sweetheart.”

“It was Malachi – they – ” Cas coughed. It wracked his whole vessel.

“I don't care.”

“They killed Dashiel. They killed him.” 

“That your blood?” In response, Cas just closed his eyes, and Crowley frowned.  He rolled up one sleeve and felt inside the trenchcoat for a wound. Nothing. “Hey,” he said a little louder. “Stay with me, angel.” He patted the angel's face lightly. Cas opened his eyes and glared up at him.

“I'm awake.”

“Are you injured?”

“I... My brothers, they...”

Crowley sighed. “I don't care. Are. You. Injured.”

“I'm just... I'm just exhausted.”

“Then rest, you heavenly muppet.”

“I can't. I have to get back to the – ” Cas struggled as though to get up but immediately slumped against the wall again. “I have to get back,” he concluded weakly.

“You aren't going anywhere.” Crowley got his shoulder under Castiel's arm and started lifting him to his feet. “Come on.”

Castiel let himself be helped up. “Why are you being... kind... to me?”

“You charge back in, Raphael gets that pretty head on a pike, I'm out a business partner.” Crowley finally got the two of them completely upright and then started half-leading, half-carrying Cas out of the room. The curve of the angel's narrow waist made him feel surprisingly fragile through all the clothes, and Crowley wrapped his arm a little tighter around him. So he didn't fall, he told himself. 

“Where are we going?”

“You're going to the nearest bed. I'm going...” to have a hard time explaining to some demons why they have to babysit an angel while he takes a nap. He sighed.

Crowley waved the nearest underlings over to help him help Cas to Crowley's room, which, as promised, had the nearest bed. One stayed and helped him arrange the bed around the angel, and the rest filed back out immediately. He reminded himself to compensate them extra for this.

“Crowley.”

“What?”

“Thank you.”

Crowley rolled his eyes and closed the door behind him. He stationed two guards outside the room with the promise of great personal rewards provided they succeeded in keeping the angel in and everyone else out. As he was storming off, making a show of his annoyance with the situation, his phone vibrated and he pulled it out of his suit jacket. 'Grandpa.' 

“What.”

“Yeah, we got a problem.”

 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

 

Crowley came back to find Castiel awake, sitting on his bed, looking grim and worried and slightly more rumpled than usual. 

“So! Seems the Winchesters have been very intrepid little investigators of late.” 

Cas looked a bit chagrined. “I was - I was planning to tell you.”

 “Not to worry.” Crowley waved away the concern and grinned. “I covered for you with Fido and Fluffy. It's all big bad Crowley's doing, as far as they're concerned.”

Cas nodded. “Crowley,” he said, and sighed. “I have to go. I have to be back out on the battlefield.”

“Well, no one's stopping you,” Crowley said, giving a little shrug.

“I'm too weak to fight like this.” 

“I know that, you feather-brained twit.”

Cas put his hands on his knees and squinted at Crowley. “I need help.”

“What do you call this?” Crowley said affrontedly, with a gesture at the bed.

“I need... souls. Now.” Cas stood up, wavered immediately, and caught Crowley's arm to steady himself.

Crowley pulled away and brushed his sleeve off as though Cas had mussed it. “What is this, the First National Bank of Crowley? No!” Cas just stared at him, his forehead crinkled in consternation, his blue eyes all wounded and soft.

“Crowley, please. I'm asking you for help.”

“Make me an offer.”

“I don't...” Castiel shrugged helplessly. “What do you want?”

Crowley narrowed his eyes. Cas looked down at him with that patented expression of grave, guileless bewilderment, his brow furrowed and his mouth open a little, and Crowley stared back at him for a beat. _To hell with it._ “This, for starters.” He grabbed the angel's tie, pulled him in, and kissed him, hard. Cas stiffened and jerked away, looking startled, and Crowley thought for a moment he'd pushed too far. Then Castiel squinted, leaned in, and kissed him back, soft and hesitant. He tasted divine. It was like kissing sunlight or the concept of spring. Something pure.

Not really the time to get sentimental. Crowley smirked through the kiss and started backing Cas toward the wall, one hand on his chest. When his back hit the wall, he blinked down at Crowley as though dazed, with a faint quizzical smile. Crowley could feel his heartbeat through the clothes. He stepped back. “Take your coat off. And that tie.”

“You want me to take my – ”

“Let me stop you right there, angel,” Crowley said, his voice low and already rough with desire. “Unless you need to stop, you're not to say another word aside from 'Yes, King' or 'No, King,' until I say otherwise.”

“I don't – ” Castiel paused.

“Are we stopping?”

Castiel squinted down at him, still evidently puzzled. “No.”

Crowley grabbed a fistful of the white shirt and corrected, very quietly, “Then it's 'No, King.' ” He kissed the angel forcefully, still holding him by the shirt, and this time the angel kissed back immediately. “I told you to take off your coat and tie, kitten. Don't make me repeat myself again.”

Castiel tilted his head. Crowley waited. If he needed a moment to process the situation, not rushing him through it now would pay off later. When Cas did start to take off the coat and tie, it was clear he'd collected himself. His hands were steady and quick. That, Crowley thought, would not last long, but for now it meant Cas was grounded and certain. Crowley took the clothes from his hands as soon as he had them off.

“This too.” He nodded toward the suit jacket Cas wore under the trenchcoat, and as Cas looked down and started taking it off, Crowley slipped out the angel blade from the coat pocket before dropping coat and tie on the floor. When Cas looked back up, his blue eyes widened. Crowley couldn't take long to appreciate the look of surprise and fear. He put his other hand at the angel's throat and held him snug against the wall. “Not going to hurt you. Well, not much. Well, not with this, anyway.” He gestured with the blade and smiled wryly. Cas frowned in confusion but made no move to resist or stop Crowley. Crowley slipped the point into Cas's white shirt, turned just so one of the edges was down, and then sliced the shirt neatly down the front in what would have been a dramatic spray of buttons if the blade didn't slice so clean and so fast. Just like that the angel's muscled chest was bare, and Crowley slipped the shreds of fabric off him and to the floor with an easy gesture. He felt the sharp intake of breath, could feel the angel's pulse at his throat, that it was racing. He smiled. “Still with me, kitten?”

“Yes. King,” Castiel added hastily, and swallowed. Crowley rewarded the correct address by stepping closer and slipping his hand down from Cas's throat, down the muscles of the chest and taut stomach where he would have liked to linger, down to where – as Crowley quite suspected it would be – Cas's cock was already growing firm against the front of his trousers. He ran his fingers gently down the length of it.

“You need those souls, don't you, pet?”

Cas took a moment too long to answer and shook his head as if to clear it. “Yes. King.” He was pressing his own palms to the wall, as though he were afraid his hands would be in the way.

“And you'll give me whatever I want for them.”

“Yes, King.” He could feel the swell of the erection growing and Castiel was already slightly squirming.

“Then get on your knees.” After a moment, Cas knelt and bowed his head with a smooth, simple ease that Crowley had never seen in him before. He lifted Cas's chin. The soft, ready look in his eyes was close to payment enough. But, of course, not quite. “You know who I am, angel?”

The head-tilt again. Crowley nodded.

“Say it.”

Cas gave a little shrug, visibly confused. “You're Crowley.”

The sudden slap rocked Castiel backward and raised tears in his dazed, baffled blue eyes. Crowley waited, motionless, his eyebrows raised.

After a pause Castiel seemed to catch on. “You're the king. Of Hell.”

“Good, kitten.” He stroked the reddened cheek. Cas shivered. From here, Crowley could tell, it would be easy to take the angel just about anywhere – he was a natural, and from the look in his eyes, he was poised on the edge of complete, perfect surrender.  But then, giving people – or, well, angels – exactly what they needed straightaway was bad salesmanship.

So Crowley stepped back, leaving Castiel there, and went to pour himself a glass of scotch. He shrugged off his sleek wool jacket and hung it up neatly, not bothering to glance at the angel, who would still be kneeling where he'd left him. After unbuttoning his own suit coat, he took a sip of his drink. Only then did he look at Cas. “Here.” He pointed at the floor in front of him.

When Cas started to stand up to move, he shook his head sharply, and the angel immediately responded. He awkwardly shuffled on his knees to where Crowley was standing, smiling, waiting for him with scotch in hand and apparently all the time in the world. With the hand not holding the glass, he unbuckled his belt and then unbuttoned his trousers. Castiel looked up at him, lost. “Give me your hand.” He guided the angel's hand to his silk boxers, to the erection that had been quite ready to go for some time now. They pulled it free. Castiel stared. Crowley would have been gratified by that if he didn't know that Castiel would have been just as agog at one three inches shorter, out of sheer shocked angelic virtue.

He sipped his drink and set it down. “Don't pretend you don't know what comes next, pet,” he said. After a moment, Castiel opened his mouth and slowly, experimentally took in the tip of his cock. Much as he wanted to, Crowley resisted the urge to simply plunge into the angel's throat for the moment. “Use your tongue.” Castiel made a soft sound, which seemed to surprise him as much as it did Crowley, and took it deeper, his inexperienced tongue gentle against the tip. “No, don't close your eyes. Look at me. Good.” Crowley pushed Castiel's head in and out, helping the angel establish a rhythm. Castiel picked it up admirably well, for a beginner. Crowley grinned and took another drink of his scotch, looking down at the half-naked, dreamy-eyed angel kneeling on the floor of his bedroom with his cock in his mouth. A demon could get used to this.

When he felt the swell of his orgasm approaching, Crowley made no effort to slow it down or put it off. Yes, there was a great deal more he would have liked to get out of the angel, a lot of delicious ways to put that pretty vessel of his to good use, but there was no sense in rushing things. Now that he'd gotten Castiel to go this far, he knew for sure that he could get just about whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it, and all it had cost him was a few souls.

As he groaned and thrust his cock deep into the angel's yielding throat, he thought this might well be the best deal he'd ever made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, it's smut time, so here's a warning: This chapter (along with future chapters of the fic) carries a trigger warning for bad consent practices and manipulative behavior. In this chapter any dangerous territory is still pretty mild, but heads up that it will be more pronounced later on. Crowley is a fun character to write but he is a bad partner to have.


	6. But You're Quicksand

It was only a few days of mutual avoidance before Castiel found his own way into Crowley's bedroom again. When Crowley came in and turned on the light, he found Cas there. He had been sitting nearly motionless in the dark, except for his fingers tracing the smooth inlays on the night table and the other hand fretting at the sleeve of his trenchcoat. “Castiel. Why the heavenly visitation?”

Castiel didn't look up immediately. When he did, he spoke with the oddly defensive defiance of someone almost unconscious that he was lying, but not quite. Crowley had, as he'd boasted in the past, sold sin to saints for centuries; he was very familiar with that particular emotional borderland. “I need... more help. From you. Souls.” As he spoke he got to his feet, folding and unfolding with anxiety, all sharp awkward angles.

“Do you.”

“Yes.” Crowley raised his eyebrows. When he let the silence stretch, Cas rushed to fill it in. “At least ten thousand.” 

“At least.”

“Yes.”

“Really.”

“Yes.”

Crowley sighed, feigning deep irritation. “I don't suppose you have anything to give me in exchange for this generosity on my part.”

“I'm open to suggestions.” Cas looked away and then glanced back at Crowley out of the corners of his eyes before looking at the ceiling. Crowley stepped closer to him.

“You're a truly pitiful negotiator, angel.”

“So you've told me.”

“And a worse liar.”

“I'm not lying.”

Crowley adjusted the collar of Castiel's shirt, then turned his attention to the tie, which was on backwards again. He could feel the angel's breath quicken at his touch. Cas looked everywhere but at Crowley's face. His hands opened and closed aimlessly at his sides. “Castiel.”

“Yes?”

“Tell me why you're really here.”

“I... need your help.”

“Is that all?”

The angel didn't answer. Instead, he bent slightly and kissed Crowley, a single, exploratory, tentative kiss at the corner of his lips, like a butterfly alighting and then taking flight again. Crowley resisted the urge to kiss him back. He adjusted the tie and looked up at the angel, the stare level and cold. Castiel's blue eyes were anxious, pained. Without another word, Crowley undid the tie he had just fixed. He slipped the coat off Cas's shoulders and let it drop. Castiel stood docile and cooperative. Too easy, too peaceful. Crowley unbuckled Castiel's belt and pulled it off, the movement a little rough, jerking forward the angel's slim hips. “Take the rest off.” Crowley folded the belt over thoughtfully in his hand as Castiel unbuttoned his trousers and stepped out of them. He was wearing snow-white cotton boxers, which was exactly appropriate enough to be ridiculous. Still, the idea of that spotless white against reddened skin... “Leave those.”

Castiel stripped down the rest of the way, then stood, completely motionless, his hands folded in front of him. His gaze, though it was still averted from Crowley's face, was calm and expectant, not darting around the room anxiously as before. For a moment, instead of just the twitchy, clumsy ball of scruff in the raincoat, Crowley could see the angel as the soldier of heaven. Strange, given he was standing in the king of hell's bedroom in his boxer shorts. Crowley resolved to make sure Castiel fully understood that incongruity.

He stepped behind Castiel, casual, leisurely. Cas turned slightly as though to look at him, but thought better of it and looked forward again. Crowley traced the tense shoulders, the straight soldierly spine, with gentle, leisurely fingers. He actually felt the angel's squint of wary curiosity, a slight inclination of his neck and twist of his shoulders, and he smiled. He pushed Cas gently forward, guiding him to a table at about waist height. A spark of brilliance hit him and he grinned. “If you need me to stop, say _nó-ah i-yeh_.” Castiel did turn then in surprise, opening his mouth as if to speak, but before he got a word out Crowley had him pinned down to the table, his arm twisted hard behind him, his cheek against the polished wood. He tsked. “'Yes, King,' 'No, King,' or ' _nó-ah i-yeh_ ,'” he admonished lightly. “Unless I tell you otherwise.”

Castiel didn't reply right away, just remained where Crowley was holding him, his eyes closed, not even squirming in protest. Especially with his repeated infusions of power, the angel could probably have taken Crowley's arm off if he had really wanted to, uncomfortable position or not. And instead, that perfect, unresisting stillness. Crowley could feel himself growing a little bit hard against the angel. He turned aside for the moment. “Castiel. Do you understand?”

“Yes, King.”

“If you need to stop, what will you say?”

“ _Nó-ah i-yeh_ ,” Castiel almost whispered. The Enochian, which always felt a bit like marbles in Crowley's mouth, sounded graceful and lightweight when Castiel used it. Crowley was tempted to twist a bit harder, but he held his voice and hand steady.

“And do you need to stop now?”

“No, King.”

“Good.” Crowley kept the angel's wrist firmly locked in position, but with his other hand he set down the belt and caressed his bare back, the curve of his waist, the swell of his buttocks. “Good, kitten.” Castiel shifted slightly under his hand, his muscles – reluctantly – beginning to relax and respond to the gentle touch. Crowley slipped his knee between Castiel's thighs, and felt the angel shiver a little as he brushed against the sensitive flesh barely protected by the white boxer shorts. Almost instinctively Cas yielded, unconsciously rearranging himself to offer up all his most vulnerable parts readily. Crowley smiled, for a moment overtaken by the serene, undivided way that Castiel slipped into submission, like a talented diver slipping into the water with barely a ripple. He rested his hand on the angel's back, his own breathing beginning to fall into the same slow rhythm.

That was going to be a problem.

He picked the belt up again and leaned down to speak quietly near Castiel's ear. “When I let go of your wrist, you take hold of the chair in front of you. If you do or say anything else, or let go before I give you permission, I will make you regret it. Do you understand?”

“Yes, King.” Castiel glanced at him, as best he could, and nodded.

Crowley released his hold on the angel and stepped back. Castiel did exactly as he was told. Somewhat more exactly than necessary. Crowley felt an involuntary quirk of his lips when Castiel missed the chair with one hand initially because he did not even lift his head to look at the chair Crowley had indicated. “Good.” Crowley left him there and went to the cupboard in the corner, where he kept all manner of interesting junk. He pondered a pair of cuffs which had some Enochian sigils carved into them, which he'd been wondering about since he came across them, but it didn't seem the time to experiment with those. For now he took out a length of bare rope, rough and knotted. He returned to Cas. “Look at me, kitten.” Cas lifted his head slightly and looked at him. He showed Cas the rope, which seemed to leave him nonplussed. He looped it around his wrists and tied them snugly together, then started tying them to the chair. “You could break this rope, easily. You're strong enough. But if you did that, it would make me angry. Understand?”

“Yes, King.”

“Do you want me to be angry?”

“No, King.”

“That's right.” He finished up. Cas was still holding the chair, but now both wrists were also bound to it. “Test it, fidget all you like. When you're ready, hold the chair again.” He tapped the chair for emphasis. “I'll wait.” He stepped back behind Castiel a few paces, where he couldn't see him, and took in the view. The angel's slim torso stretched across the table, his broad shoulders, the absurd white boxers pulling tight around his rounded, muscular arse – Crowley was torn between the desire to stare indefinitely and the urge to get between those slender thighs, now, subtlety and technique be damned. When Cas's hands finally grasped the carved cresting rail, Crowley paused a moment, took off his suit jacket, and hung it up before finally approaching him, his footsteps soft and slow, the belt folded over in his hand.

“Do you know why you came here tonight, kitten?”

Castiel opened his eyes. “Yes, King.”

“Then tell me,” Crowley said softly, resting one hand on the small of his back.

Castiel paused to arrange his thoughts, opened his mouth, began to speak. Before he could get a word out, Crowley cracked the folded belt hard across his arse. Castiel made a sound somewhere between a yelp and a sob. “Don't you dare lie to me, angel,” Crowley snarled. Cas gasped a panicked breath.

“I wasn- ”

He lashed him with the belt again, more for the sound than for the pain since Castiel was still spinning out from the first blow. The sound was enough. “When will you learn to stop speaking without permission?” The belt fell rhythmic and steady, again and again, merciless. “I know why you're here. And I know when you're lying, angel.” Cas was twisting under the blows, breathing in desperate little gasps, but he held tight to the back of the chair. Finally Crowley stopped for a moment, letting the pain ring through the angel's body, making sure he had the presence of mind to listen. Then he leaned close, running the fingers of his free hand through Cas's short hair. His face was flushed and taut with pain, but he leaned his head into Crowley's touch. “You're not here because you need more souls,” Crowley said softly. “You're here because you need _this_.” He leaned over and planted a lingering kiss on Castiel's shoulder, tasting the salt of the angel's skin, and as he did he wrapped a hand around his throat, tight enough to hurt a little, not tight enough to cut off any air. “You need to let me do this. Isn't that right, kitten?”

Castiel drew a breath but said nothing. From the way Crowley felt his pulse racing against his fingertips, he guessed that wasn't defiance. Without letting go of his throat, he set the belt on the table beside Cas and pulled the white boxers down, not all the way, just far enough to show the welts he'd left. He ran his fingers over the raised marks. “All that power, all those – hard battlefield decisions, all those angels looking to you to tell them what's right and what's next.” Castiel was quivering. He smiled. “I think you know deep down you weren't cut out for any of it. You weren't – made to be in command. Deep down you know what you really need is for someone, anyone to tell you what to do.” He let go, stepped back. “Tell me, angel. Am I right?” Castiel made no response, except to twist ineffectually toward Crowley. He drew back, not permitting him the comfort of touch, and struck the exposed flesh of his buttocks, twice, hard, with the belt. “You're to answer me when I ask you a question. We'll try again, kitten. Am... I... right?”

Castiel shuddered and took in a breath, then swallowed, then, finally, managed to speak. His voice was quiet and unsteady. “Yes. King.”

“Good.” Crowley paused, stroking Cas's hair, and then stepped away from him completely. Cas was shivering; his jaw tightened and brow furrowed when Crowley withdrew his touch. Crowley stepped around in front of him and unfastened his hands from the chair, though he left the wrists tied in front of him. “You can stand up.” Crowley set the belt down again and picked up his glass. He sat down on his bed, watching the angel struggle to get himself upright. Eventually he managed, using his elbows to push himself up. Crowley studied his face. His eyes were dazed and soft, and he was looking bemusedly down at his boxers which were angled oddly after Crowley's ministrations. “Hey.” Crowley rapped the night table with his knuckles. “Sweetheart. Still with me?”

“Yes, King.”

“Come over here.” He sipped his drink and then, as the angel shuffled over to him with his bound hands twisting idly against the rope, gestured to the spot in front of him on the floor. “Come on, angel. Don't make me tell you again.” 

Cas knelt. The movement was less perfectly graceful without his hands for balance, but still had a certain elegance. Crowley lifted his chin and looked into his eyes. Cas looked back steadily, his gaze unblinking and bright yet somehow hazy, somehow absent. Crowley ran his thumb along the angel's lips.

Without prompting, Cas lifted his hands and took Crowley's wrist. Though a bit surprised, Crowley let him. Cas kissed the palm of his hand, his fingertips, his lips brushing the skin like snowflakes. Crowley watched. The angel's blue eyes studied his face, never quite sharpening to focus, and then he closed them. Crowley glanced away and then back at his hand in puzzlement. Where Castiel was touching him, it looked as if his skin were lit faintly blue-white, like sunlight reflecting from snow. With dawning dread, he realized that the angel's entire body – all the bare skin, his serene face, everything – had taken on a barely perceptible radiance. “Open your eyes,” he said, cautious, more a request than a command. Castiel did, instantly. They were the same, not burning with the terrible glare of an warrior of God about to smite an enemy, just glowing – faintly – as though some of his grace were spilling out in a haze of light. Crowley stared at him, not feeling terribly certain what to do with that. He realized that Castiel was smiling, in that calm satisfied way that barely seemed to touch his vessel's face. Crowley gingerly withdrew his hand, as though he were setting down the  detonator for a nuclear bomb. He downed the rest of his drink, poured another, and drank it too. Castiel was motionless, still looking at him with utter calm and that faint smile.

Crowley decided to test a theory. He took off his tie and began to unbutton his shirt. Castiel reached for the shirt as if to help. When he did, Crowley was ready with a sharp slap across the angel's cheek. “Did I tell you you could touch me, angel?”

Castiel, wide-eyed, let his hands fall into his lap. “No, King.”

“That's right.” So. He hadn't been blasted into nothingness, wasn't dissolving, and still seemed to be in charge as far as the angel was concerned. Whatever it meant, the glowing did not mean a smiting on the way.  Crowley finished unbuttoning the shirt and the sleeves, then took it off and folded it carefully. He didn't look at Cas. He took off his belt and set it aside, neatly, on the pile of clothes. He unbuttoned his trousers and pulled them off too, then folded them up, taking care over the creases. His socks and shoes went onto the floor. Castiel was still frowning at his folded hands. Crowley reached down and pulled him up by the elbow into a kiss, to which the angel yielded uncertainly. As he kissed him, he untied his hands and set aside the rope. Then he ran his hands down the angel's sides and slipped one inside his boxers, stroking Castiel's erection with his fingertips. He took it out and then released Castiel with a gentle push backward.

“Sit back now. Knees apart.” Cas sat back, looking somewhat confused. “Knees. Apart,” Crowley chided, and nudged them apart with his foot. “Now. Stroke your cock for me. Start slowly.” Castiel looked down and aside, and uncertainly put his right hand on his shaft. He didn't move. Crowley narrowed his eyes and touched Castiel's cheek lightly. “Best do as you're told, kitten. No one likes a disobedient pet.” Castiel glanced up at Crowley, his eyes momentarily unreadable, then began to stroke it, the movement hesitant. Crowley waited. After a moment his motion became more certain, and his eyes widened. Crowley half-suspected he'd never actually done this before. “That's right. Now look at me.” Cas lifted his head and looked at Crowley. His lips were parted, his cheeks had spots of red, and his eyes were a mixture of fear and longing. He was beautiful, and for a moment Crowley was overwhelmed by it.

Before long the angel's muscles had begun to respond to the sensation, his hips thrusting forward almost imperceptibly as he masturbated himself. Gathering himself, Crowley grinned. “If only the other angels could see you now. Faster. Raphael, your little garrison. What would they think of pure Castiel, righteous Castiel – I said faster – the soldier of God, the defender of heaven, if they saw you – _I didn't say you could stop_ – if they saw you on your knees pleasuring yourself for my amusement?” Cas whimpered, clearly nearing orgasm, trembling. His eyes were closed now, his lip caught between his teeth, and his body shuddered. Crowley waited just a beat longer. “Stop. Now.” He could see that Castiel was barely able to stop, and he smiled. The angel's face was flushed. He was very close indeed, twitching even after he let go. “Good, kitten.” Castiel looked disoriented. Crowley took out a bottle from the bedside table drawer. He helped Castiel to his feet and then gestured at the bed. Cas just looked at him. He rolled his eyes and slicked his hands with the lubricant, then shoved Cas forward so that he couldn't go anywhere but over the bed. “You're hopeless,” he almost purred, as he bared the angel's slender backside again, letting the boxers fall to the floor this time. He eased one finger inside, and Castiel twitched with a gasp. “Relax, kitten. Otherwise this will definitely hurt, and not in the sexy way.” He ran it in and out, carefully, as the angel's body slowly released its tension. Then he added another. Castiel let out a soft moan, then flinched. Crowley paused, but he did so with two fingers buried deep. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No, King.” It was part gasp, part groan. Castiel was clutching the bedspread, unconsciously pushing himself back against Crowley's hand. “Please.”

Crowley let that slide. He slid the fingers in and out, torturously slow and very deep. When he found the right angle, he knew it immediately: although he was clearly trying to hold himself still, Castiel jerked in surprise when Crowley hit his prostate.

Crowley grinned. He kicked off his own boxer shorts and poured a more generous quantity of lubricant onto his hands, and as he fucked Cas with his fingers, he stroked his own cock to slippery hardness. He stepped behind Castiel and gently, carefully worked the tip of his cock into the angel's hole. He would have liked to take the angel much less slowly and more violently, but it seemed to be his first time, and he did not want to damage either of their bodies. As he slowly pushed his way in, Castiel arched and whimpered, not struggling but twisting his hands in the bedspread. Crowley drew back and thrust in again, still slow, still cautious. The angel was tight around him and when he spoke it was breathless. “You like how this feels, don't you, angel?”

“Yes, King,” Cas breathed.

He fell into a rhythm – too slow for his taste, but fast enough. “When you're out there acting high and mighty for the other angels,” he growled into the angel’s ear, “I want you to remember this. Remember what it felt like to let the king of hell fuck you. Remember how you got all that power, all those souls.” Castiel was pushing himself back against him, and he obliged, going faster, deeper. He felt his pulse and the angel's, both racing, and as he got closer, he dug his fingers hard into Cas's sides. Castiel responded with a low moan, rocking back into him.

“Go ahead. Come for me, kitten,” he coaxed. “Be a good little whore for me.” At the word, Castiel jerked as though he were going to look back at Crowley in surprise, but in the blink of an eye Crowley was grasping the back of his neck, holding him where he was. He slammed into him, burying himself to the hilt, his pulse racing under his skin. The angel’s hands clenched in the blanket and he cried out. There was a brilliant flash of light. As the angel tensed and slackened, Crowley pulled Castiel's slender hips back against him, plunging into his warmth, and he felt his own climax rush through him like fire, a heady wave of power and something like joy.  He thrust a final time into the angel and then withdrew, collapsing out of breath onto the bed beside him. He saw that Cas tottered, barely keeping his feet, and he patted his hand to get his attention. “Lie down, kitten. On the bed. By me.” Cas climbed into the bed and lay down, his whole body still trembling and, as far as Crowley could tell, giving off a barely perceptible haze of white light. Crowley put his hand on Cas's back, sensing his need for touch. It was warm and slick with sweat. “You're all right, kitten. You're safe. Rest now.”

He felt dimly strange about that, but there were more pressing matters than undue tenderness toward angels and business partners. Incredibly, virtually unprecedentedly, Crowley felt, of all things, sleepy. He drifted off, his hand still resting on the angel's back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Enochian safeword translates approximately to "be merciful."


	7. Love's a Game, Wanna Play?

When Crowley woke, his head was resting on soft pillows and his downy blanket was tucked carefully around him. He blinked and sat up. Demons did not typically need to sleep, and he was a busy man, so waking up in his own bed was a surreal experience. “...Castiel?” He looked around. Nothing. He was alone. Well, at least there was that.

He showered and dressed. He felt refreshed, revived, as though the hot water, the robe, the straight razor, the towels were sensations he was experiencing somehow for the first time. He was momentarily very glad that he had insisted invariably on the best of everything, even though usually the quality of his showerhead and the thickness of the bath towels would be superfluous attributes. When he came back out, his bedding had been replaced and a demon attendant in a black suit was arranging the pillows; when he saw Crowley, the man nodded gravely and left. Crowley put the finishing touches on his outfit, selecting a black silk handkerchief with red edging and folding it meticulously into a peaked pocket square. He sat down with a generous pour of Craig and thought of strategy, and bribery, and deception, and murder, and tried valiantly to stop his mind from drifting back to the angel bent over that table and the angel on his knees on the floor and the angel naked in his bed.

It was not working.

He sipped his drink, the sharp smoky brushfire flavor incredibly powerful for a moment, so intense as to overwhelm all his other senses. He thought Hell would probably run reasonably well for a day or so if he chose to stay in his room and drink every 30-year scotch he could get his hands on (which, being that he was the former King of the Crossroads, would be all of them). But there were, after all, creatures and demons to interrogate, and he'd need to stay on top of the hunt for Purgatory if he planned on, well, staying on top of his angel. His thoughts turned to torture as he finished his drink.

 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

 

Crowley stalked down the hallway. After all the time and resources he had spent finding the iridium blade, gathering all of those insufferable screaming infants, the shifter had given him nothing. Nothing to work with. He stopped outside his chambers, reminding himself he had plenty of other irons in the fire. He opened the door.

And stopped short. “Castiel.” Cas was standing next to his books, paging through a paperback he'd pulled off the shelf.

“This is very inaccurate,” he mused. “Vampires don't reproduce through the same biological mechanisms as humans, so this Bella couldn't possibly have become pregnant --”

“Oh, for the love of – put that down.”

Castiel set the book carefully on the table and looked at Crowley expectantly.

“Is there something you need, or... just happened to be in the neighborhood?”

“The neighborhood?”

Crowley sighed. “Why are you here, Castiel?”

Cas took a hesitant step toward Crowley and then stopped. “To see you.”

“About?”

“There's a lull in the fighting. Rachel – she's my lieutenant – she can handle things for now.”

Crowley crossed to the table and sat down, next to where Cas was standing. “That doesn't answer my question, angel.” He took an empty glass from the neat arrangement on the table.

“If you'd rather I leave, I...” Cas trailed off. Crowley studied his face for a moment. Then he gestured with the glass to the bottle of scotch. Cas squinted. After a moment his eyes lit up with a smile that barely touched his lips. He took the bottle and poured some scotch, carefully, into the glass in Crowley's hand. Crowley nodded and took a drink, then motioned to the chair across from him.

“Sit.”

Castiel sat, but barely, looking as though he might spring out of the chair at any minute. Crowley smiled despite himself at Cas's visible edginess. “How is your work in hell going?” Castiel asked, with the inflection of someone reading from a script.

“Oh, Cas.” Crowley hid a smirk with his glass. “Do us both a favor and don't try to make conversation.”

Castiel's face fell. He looked at the table and then at his hands. Crowley drank in silence and thought.

When he had finished, he turned his attention back to Castiel, who still looked dismayed at his failed attempt to make small talk. “Now. If you plan to keep just showing up at all hours, coming and going in and out of my personal chambers – ”

Cas stood, stiffly, and folded his hands in front of him. Though he didn't look at Crowley, he sounded genuinely chagrined. “I'm sorry to intrude – I misunderstood –”

“Sit down,” Crowley ordered, raising his voice. Cas sat down. “When I want you to go, I'll tell you. Don't interrupt me again.” Cas looked at him sidelong, ambivalent. He softened his tone. “I know how to angel-proof a room. If I don't want you in here, rest assured, you won't be.” He set down his empty glass, and Cas filled it again smoothly. Crowley watched, trying not to let his surprise show.

“I don’t…” Cas paused, twisting his hands, and waited for Crowley to continue.

He nodded. “We’ll dispense with the needless… and frankly transparent excuses. If you don’t mind.”

“I – I don’t know what – ” Cas gave Crowley a helpless look and stopped.

“Cas, please.” He waved his hand. “First of all, the cat’s long past out of the bag on this one. Secondly, you really should stop trying to lie to me. Even if you weren’t the world’s worst liar – which you are – I’m the king of hell, darling. It’s not going to work.”

“I’m sorry.”

“As I was saying. No more excuses. You’re not here for more souls and if you were I wouldn’t give them to you.” Crowley took a drink and looked at Cas over the rim. His face was a peculiar mix of confusion, worry, and relief, and he had shifted from twisting his hands to pulling on his coat sleeve.

“Yes, you’re right. That’s not why I’m here.”

Crowley waited a beat, then leaned in and placed his hand on Cas’s, just firmly enough that he stopped Cas’s fidgeting. “I understand, Cas.” He glanced up at him warily and Crowley met his eyes, held his gaze.   “You’re confused, you’re scared. And you haven’t been able to think about anything but coming back here to me. And you’re ashamed. Because you need it so much you feel like you’d do anything. And because of what I am, and what you are.” Cas looked off to the side. Crowley took his hand, utterly gentle, just enough pressure to be reassuring.  “Right so far, angel?”  

Cas withdrew his hand from Crowley’s, not pulling away in a rejection, but drawing himself inward, squeezing his hands closed as though he were trying to hold on to the string of a kite being pulled away by the wind. “Yes.” His voice was lower than usual. He glanced at Crowley’s face anxiously and then down at the table again. “How-”

“Cas. Really. You’re an open book.”

Discomfort flickered across his face, and he said nothing.

“Listen, angel.” Crowley touched his hand again, not trying to take it this time, and leaned in to catch Cas’s eyes. “You don’t have anything to be ashamed of. I understand how you think, and I understand why you need this.”

“What do you mean?”

Crowley leaned back and stared at him, as though what he was saying were incredibly obvious. “You’re an angel who’s just been given free will. You’re completely lost. You need a firm hand, and I can give you that.”

Cas hesitated, but said nothing. Crowley pushed on.

“Your precious Winchesters tore up the rule book, remember? For all of us. There’s no reason to fight this.”

“Freedom doesn’t mean no longer considering right and wrong, Crowley.”

“We’re already working together. Sharing each other’s secrets. This isn’t any different.”

Castiel paused and stared at his hands. Then, slowly, he nodded. Crowley smiled, mostly to himself. He had him.

“Now. I’m renegotiating our terms.”

“What?” Cas looked at him, distressed. Crowley waved his hand.

“Nothing to worry about, sweetheart.”

“This doesn’t mean –”

“Stop talking, angel, and let me finish.”

Cas frowned intensely and didn’t look at Crowley, twisting his hands quite hard in what was clearly an effort at self-control. “What terms do you propose?” he asked, his voice still betraying agitation.

Crowley picked up his drink and started sipping from it again. “Oh, Cas. Stop pouting. This benefits both of us. Out there, everything remains the same. Anything about souls or weapons or Raphael or Purgatory, negotiations, deals, we keep out there. If you have business to discuss as partners, we meet out there.” He gestured.

Cas was looking at him strangely. He raised his eyebrows, waiting for the question. “In the hallway,” Cas ventured.

Crowley closed his eyes for a moment, steeling himself, and then said patiently, “No, kitten. Out there, meaning everywhere except my personal chambers. Anywhere but here.”

Cas nodded.

“Now. Come here whenever you like. But we’re not business partners here.” When Cas tilted his head, Crowley held up his hand. “Allow me to rephrase. In my personal chambers, you're not acting in your capacity as my business partner. The terms of our –  arrangement – here are different. Do you understand that, or do I need to explain it with crayons and small words?”

“I understand. Crayons won't be necessary.” Castiel spoke flatly enough that Crowley wasn't sure if he'd noticed Crowley was being egregiously insulting for no reason, which was probably a good thing.

“Good.” Crowley got up from his chair. “Here, I make the decisions. You just… do as you’re told. Nothing more, nothing less. You will address me as your king, and unless you call a stop, any disobedience will be punished, at my discretion. Because that’s what you need.” Cas wasn’t looking at him, but Crowley could practically feel the conflicted anxiety emanating from him. He stopped, standing behind him, and let the silence rest a moment, let the fear and tension build. Then he set his hand gently on the angel’s shoulder, his thumb just brushing the curve of his neck, and felt Cas’s breathing stop for a moment, his fidgeting go still. “Yes or no, kitten?” he asked quietly.

After a pause and a silence, Cas turned, catching hold of Crowley’s coat, pulled him down urgently and kissed him, a breathless, fervent kiss that set the room spinning for a moment, and then drew away just enough to say “Yes - ” before Crowley was kissing him fiercely back, pulling him up out of the chair, which they knocked over somehow as they crashed together.

Crowley guided Cas toward the bed and pushed him down onto it as they kissed, and then, as he climbed on top of the angel, straddling his narrow hips while Cas looked up at him with anxious blue eyes, Crowley’s phone began to vibrate. He tried to pull it out of his pocket to throw it away when the music started. _I like big butts and I cannot lie! You other brothas can’t den--_ Crowley managed to fumble the phone into silence, but at Castiel’s comical expression of surprised bewilderment he couldn’t stifle a grin.

“Winchesters,” he said by way of explanation, to a squint from Castiel. The music started again. He held a finger to the angel’s lips, waited for a nod of understanding, and then answered.

“Hello? … Squirrel! What’d you get me?” Cas started to look anxious. Crowley sat up, one knee still planted firmly on either side of Cas’s waist. “A rugaru? I thought I told you… fine.” He rolled his eyes. “At this rate Moose will get his soul back sometime around—” He looked at the phone, sighed, and tossed it aside. Cas was staring at him, frowning. “Hung up,” Crowley said, shrugging.

“What were you saying about Sam’s soul?”

Crowley cocked his head to the side and looked at Cas, his eyebrows raised, his tone light. “Forget the rules already, kitten?”

Cas went through a series of expressions before he settled on contrition, but when he spoke, his voice was grave and earnest. “No, your highness. I’m sorry if I spoke out of turn.” By way of apology, he pulled Crowley down into another long, lingering kiss.

Crowley guessed he could live with that.


	8. Paint Me a Blue Sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Crowley's being a real dick this week. Sorryyyyyy? Anyway, see end notes for warnings.

Cas stormed in, his coat flapping, his jaw set. “You set _hellhounds_ on us!”

Crowley didn’t look up from the books on the table. “Oh, come on, sweetheart. You were perfectly safe.”

 “You could have killed them,” Cas almost shouted, and Crowley wheeled on him, his eyes narrowed.

“I had to make it look real, angel, or your precious pets wouldn’t fall for the big finish. You’re welcome, by the way.”

“For _what_?”

“Faking my own death, for one thing. Not to mention taking the blame for your mistake. You know that self-righteous little rodent Meg actually tried to torture me? Me!”

Cas just glared at him, his head lowered a little as though he were a bull who might yet charge. “You should have warned me about the hellhounds.”

“Oh _please_ ,” Crowley sneered. He advanced on Cas, a casual saunter, paying no heed to the angel’s still-seething rage. “And you’d, what, play surprised? Just like you played intimidating back there at my death scene? All fire and fury, giving me orders?” Before Cas could gather himself to respond, Crowley stepped close to him, meeting his stare with a look of of measured disdain. He smiled spitefully. “Lucky Squirrel has more important things on his mind than you, kitten. Otherwise even he would have seen right through your little act.”

Cas took a step back. His whole body was rigid, his fists still clenched, but Crowley could see the wary woundedness in his eyes, like cracks forming in ice. “He’s trying to save his brother’s soul. It’s natural for him to be preoccupied.”

“Who exactly are you trying to convince, angel?” Crowley was still smiling, on a brief high of vicious glee. “Because I don’t much care why Dean Winchester’s priorities don’t include you.”

“That’s not – ”

“It’s not my problem. All I’m interested in is whether you’re going to keep him and Jolly Green out of my way.”

Cas took a breath. He looked at the floor, the wall. “It’s taken care of.”

“Fine.”

Crowley turned back to his books. With a soft rustle of wings, Cas was gone.

 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

 

Crowley landed somewhere unfamiliar and empty. Some desert. The ground was gritty, scrub-land, uneven and littered with bristling plants.

He could see Cas a little way off, utterly motionless, with his head cocked further to the side than seemed normal even for Cas. He seemed unaffected by the chill in the air. He was just standing there, facing an enormous cactus. Crowley shook his head in disbelief. He approached, a little bit more nervously than he would have admitted. As he got closer he saw two blazing, round yellow eyes shining out of the cactus like strange, small headlights.

Just then he tripped over a shrub, prickles embedding themselves in his pant leg, and swore, disentangling himself.

Cas didn’t even turn at the sound, though the yellow eyes swivelled to stare at Crowley for a moment before returning to Castiel’s.

Crowley moved closer, now careful, picking his way over the rough terrain.

Finally, the shape in the darkness resolved. A tiny owl was staring out of the cactus, and Cas was staring back, his head tilted to match the angle of the owl’s. Both unblinking and still, as though they were having some sort of silent communion. Crowley blinked and made a helpless gesture of incredulous confusion to no one. An owl. Finally he just went and stood beside Cas.

Cas didn’t move except to place his finger on his lips in a shushing gesture. “It’s an owl,” he said.

“Yes, I see that.” Crowley looked at Cas, decided to wait a moment.

The owl ruffled its wings and moved its head. Cas mirrored it. “Why are you here?”

“We need to talk. Partner.”

“I don’t want to talk to you right now.”

“Too busy doing… whatever this is.”

Cas didn’t answer.

“Well. Far be it from me to interrupt such… obviously important angel business. Just thought you should know, Moose’ll be getting his soul back any moment now. Thought you’d want to be there when he does.”

Cas’s brow furrowed and finally he turned and glanced at Crowley. “Thank you.”

“Yeah. Well.” Crowley shrugged and gestured toward the owl. “Terribly sorry to intrude.”

Before Cas could answer, Crowley disappeared back to hell.

 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

 

Just as Crowley had settled in for the night, Cas had shown up, burst through the door visibly agitated, and started talking. He paced, occasionally shaking his head like he was trying to get something out of it. Crowley sat staring at him in mild disbelief.

“I don’t know why Death would do something like this. And now Sam’s awake, just walking around with – some kind of wall, and that horrible broken thing behind it like a time bomb, and… you told him and I told him it was a terrible idea. I tried to say, Dean, you can’t just…”

Crowley was done. He lifted his hand for silence. “Stop talking.”

Cas frowned impatiently, folding his arms across his chest.

“I believe I’ve been very clear, angel,” Crowley said, getting up from his chair, “about the limits of our partnership.”

“I don’t – ”

“If you want to talk about the Winchesters, come back during regular business hours. I’m not available.”

Cas’s jaw tightened in frustration. He looked down, his arms still folded, rocking a little forward and backward. Then he headed for the open door. Crowley gave a little flick of his wrist and it slammed shut. Cas turned to him, annoyed. “You just said – ”

“We have other matters to discuss.”

Cas squinted, exasperated. Crowley gestured toward the chair.

“Sit.”

“I’d rather stand.”

He raised his eyebrows. “I wasn’t asking. Sit. Now.”

Cas tilted his head, frowning, and then sat down, fretting at his coat with one hand. “What are –”

In one swift movement, Crowley moved to Cas, grasped his chin firmly, and tilted his head back, forcing the angel to meet his eyes. Cas froze, startled. “Now. Will you shut up on your own or do I have to shut you up?” Cas began to shake his head, glancing away, but Crowley jerked his head back. “No. Look at me. Will you be shutting up now? Yes or no.”

Cas closed his eyes for a moment. Then he opened them again and looked Crowley in the eye, which seemed hard, almost painful for him. “Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, King.”

Crowley nodded and let go, then stepped back, brushing himself off, and sat down. “Good kitten.”

Cas twisted his hands, looking shaken, and said nothing.

“Now, as I said, we have some things we need to discuss.” He poured himself a drink. “For starters, you haven’t been… entirely forthcoming with me.”

“I d–” Cas caught himself, winced. Crowley paused, his eyes narrowed, and then continued.

“So I’ll give you a chance to come clean. Is there something you’d like to tell me?”

Nothing. Blank expression.

“About a certain stubborn, impudent little traitor, perhaps?” he prompted. “And a pizza man?”

Cas gave Crowley a look strangely composed of guilt and surprise.  “I…” He paused, waited, and Crowley nodded for him to continue. “Meg kissed me. When the hellhounds were coming. I kissed her too. I didn’t…”

“You didn’t what?”

“I didn’t realize it mattered.”

“Really. You’re consorting with the treasonous bitch who wants nothing more in all of hell and earth than to kill me, and you didn’t think it mattered.”

“No. The Winchesters want to kill you too, and –”

Crowley slammed down his glass on the table, and Cas jumped. “Is that the argument you want to make with me right now? The Winchesters want to kill me too?”

“No. That’s not what I meant. I –”

“Shut up, angel. Not another word.”

Cas shot him an agonized look and said nothing.

“And as if that weren’t enough, then you had the nerve to storm in making accusations, when you should have been bloody well thanking me for my help!” Cas was fidgeting with clear distress, but his facial expression was unreadable. Crowley lowered his voice and continued. “Now, I will admit that I lost my temper, and perhaps I said some things that were a bit too honest, so I forgive you for flitting off to the Mojave to sulk. I gave you space to calm down. Yes?”

“Sonora.”

“What?”

“It was the Sonora, not the Mojave.”

“Well, thank you for clarifying that.”

“You’re w –”

“ _My point is_ , angel, so far I have been truly  –  remarkably  –  generous and patient in light of your flagrant disrespect. And you’re free to act like a spoiled, arrogant child out there, but if you imagine I’ll be as lenient with you here, you’re even more clueless than I thought you were.”

“I didn’t think…”

“Of course you didn’t.”

Crowley studied the angel’s face, the tense angles of his body, his downcast eyes, the stillness and movement. Guilt was there, fear too, but Crowley couldn’t tell whether he was buying his words. That was fine. Enough for now to have said them. The silence stretched for a moment longer. Then Crowley spoke again, this time calm, quiet. “You understand that you need to be punished.” Cas’s eyes flickered up at him and then back down.

“Yes, King,” he said, his voice even and subdued.

“Good.” Crowley allowed a faint smile. “Come here, kitten.”

Cas stood, then paused. Crowley thought he’d have to clarify, but before he did, Cas went to his knees, close by him, the movement more like a collapse than his previous graceful genuflections. Crowley blinked, startled, and the angel placed a hand on Crowley’s knee, laid his forehead against it. “I’m sorry, Crowley. King. I hope you’ll grant me the opportunity to redeem myself to you.” Crowley felt a strange warm spike of something – longing? affection? lust? This apology wasn’t something he’d wrung out, seduced, demanded from the angel, a surrender; it was a gift. Yet Crowley found himself responding. He shifted slightly in his seat as Cas glanced up.

He had had a few ideas about how this was going to go. But in honesty, the look of openness and trust in the angel’s eyes sent a wave of conflicted desires through him that swept those ideas away and he found himself a little off balance. He held back, at least, the urge to caress the angel’s cheek, to lean in and kiss those parted lips, and he held back too the urge – equally strong and equally reckless – to crush utterly that vulnerable hope, to find some knife to twist in the angel’s too-exposed heart, to _hurt_ him. _Not yet_ , he told one, or the other, and tried not to think too hard about which was which.

He stood up and stepped around the angel, leaving him kneeling there. He began to turn, but Crowley cautioned, “Don’t move. Not til I’m done talking, kitten.” He poured himself another drink. “Now, when I say, you’re going to get up. Don’t look at me. You’re going to take off those clothes. Take the tie with you, leave the belt on the table. Go and lie down on the bed, and wait for me there.”

Cas didn’t move, and Crowley smiled despite himself. “Now, angel.”

“Yes, King.”

Cas stood, began to undress himself. He laid his coat and suit jacket on Crowley’s chair, set the belt very carefully on the table. Crowley watched, sipping his drink; but the twist of the slender torso, the steady hands were driving him to distraction so he padded to his armoire and looked inside, mostly idly. When he looked up again, Cas was just then crawling into the bed, his tie bunched up in his hand.

He moved to the side of the bed, looking down at Cas who lay staring determinedly at the ceiling rather than at him. “Close your eyes, kitten.” He laid the belt on the nightstand, then took a silk handkerchief that he had pulled out of the armoire, folded expertly, and laid it over the angel’s eyes. Cas’s face scrunched up for a moment, and Crowley smiled, then smoothed the fabric over his face, lifting his head slightly to knot it in the back. “Now cross your wrists above your head.” Cas did as he was told, after a moment’s hesitation about the ‘above.’ “Good, kitten.” He climbed up beside the angel, still dressed, and ran his hands gently down the exposed sides, to a slight shiver. He took the tie from Cas's hand and bound his wrists with it, knotting it tightly to the headboard. Castiel didn't move, even to check the tension, just lay still letting Crowley work, breathing slow and deep.

“Now,” Crowley said, “are you listening to me?”

Cas nodded, then remembered himself and answered aloud. “Yes, King.” His voice was a low, soft rumble in his chest, and Crowley didn't lean in to kiss him, which he considered a testament to self-control.

“You’ve been insubordinate,” he mused, “and disrespectful. Isn’t that right?”

 “Yes, King.” He tucked his chin to the side a little, against his arm. 

 “Earlier, I was thinking of taking you over my knee and beating you bloody.” He paused. “Still love the thought, to be honest. Imagine the sounds I could drag out of you, pet.” He traced the angel's lips with his fingers, felt the delightful little catch in his breath. “But I decided to be... generous with you instead. Well. In a manner of speaking.” Cas tilted his head. Crowley smiled, broadly, wickedly. “Aren't you going to thank me, kitten?”

Cas squinted, and Crowley stifled a chuckle at the fact that the angel's expressions were exactly the same while blindfolded. “Thank you, King,” Cas said hesitantly, and then Crowley climbed atop him, pushed his head to the side and began kissing and biting his neck, not hard enough yet to hurt, but drawing a low gasp out of the angel. He moved down his body, the kisses light and gentle on the smooth skin, the sprinkling of hair, intermingled with bites that grew sharper, less playful, leaving little red marks. Though Cas jerked in surprise at first he tried to stay still and quiet, biting his lips. Crowley could feel Cas's erection growing against him, and his own already pressing hard against the front of his trousers. He reached the angle of Cas's hips, the soft nest of hair, and nipped hard at the tender skin just inside his hipbone. He moved to grip his cock, to a soft sharp intake of breath from Cas, and then he leaned down, ran his tongue expertly down the length of it, planting a light kiss at the base. Cas shivered at the sensation, and Crowley smiled, then took him in his mouth, gently, just the first few inches, at first. Castiel let out a low groan, his hands grasping each other tightly, his whole body shuddering for a moment. Crowley stopped but kept his grip on Cas's cock, tracing light circles with his fingers.

“Do you like that, pet?” 

“Yes, your highness,” he said, swallowing hard.

“Do you want more?”

“Yes, your highness.”

“Good.” He leaned down and took him in again, this time deeper, a bit harder, in and out. As he went faster, Castiel's breathing quickened. His hips lifted, involuntarily, but Crowley shoved them back down with both hands, hard. “No.” He began again, agonizingly slow. Cas made a soft, almost pained keening sound, but kept himself as still as he could. Crowley took the full length of his sensitive flesh, now ungentle, pinning his hips to the bed, his tongue prying moans from the angel. When he tasted the salt of precome and felt the angel's heartbeat racing toward the edge, he stopped, drew back. Cas groaned in protest, trembling, his cock standing almost painfully hard. Crowley smiled.

“Turn onto your stomach, angel.”

Cas paused and then struggled for a moment, partly because he was bound to the bed, but Crowley suspected also partly because he had to find his muscles again. He waited, not touching him, just watching. Then when he did manage to turn himself over, his cock pressed up against his body, he began to squirm against the sheets. Crowley placed a hand on his back. “None of that,” he said, more amused than stern. Finally Cas stilled himself, and Crowley stood up. Cas made another quiet noise at him leaving, this one more like a whimper, and Crowley grinned. He picked up the belt from the nightstand and looked down at the angel's prone form, blindfolded, flushed, trembling. Then he brought down his hand on the naked, exposed skin of his arse, a sharp and solid blow. Cas flinched in surprise, and Crowley dealt another slap, on the other side, just as hard. He climbed back onto the bed, behind the angel, setting the belt aside but within reach. He said nothing now, knowing the angel would latch on to any words or touch, preferring that he not have the option. He unleashed a rain of blows, slow at first, then faster, open-handed slaps that rang loudly through the bedroom. Then, just as suddenly as the first slap came, Crowley stopped. Castiel was shaking, pressing his reddened face against the mattress, his breath coming ragged and hard. He lifted his head, as if looking for Crowley, but of course the blindfold prevented him. 

Crowley picked up the belt. 

“Why are you being punished, kitten?”

Cas tried, but couldn't verbalize an answer to that. Crowley tried another way. 

“Do you deserve to be punished?”

Castiel nodded, unhesitating. “Yes, King,” he said, his voice unsteady and pained.

“That's right, kitten. Good.” He brought down the belt, only twice, but cracking down on the most sensitive flesh at the curve of the buttocks. Cas cried out, burying his face in the mattress, his body involuntarily twitching in response to the pain.

Crowley tossed the belt aside. He stood up, undid his own belt and took off his trousers, grabbing out the bottle of lubricant from the nightstand drawer. Cas was still spinning out, and Crowley let him. He stood watching the angel, coating his erection - which was already hard and throbbing from the hiding he'd given Cas - with a generous handful of lube, and then he crawled back on top of him. He placed a hand on the back of Cas's neck, pinning him to the bed, and Cas gave a little shudder-sigh of relief at the touch.

“Now.” With his other hand, he began toying with the angel, the fingertips tracing the cleft of his buttocks, then slipping inside, just enough to stretch the tight muscles, just enough that it interrupted Cas's breathing. “I want you to listen to me. Are you listening?”

“Yes, King,” Cas breathed.

“Good, kitten. I want you to understand this very clearly.” He slid a finger deep inside, then withdrew it, slowly, then thrust it in again. “I am going to take you. I'm going to bury my cock in your narrow little arse, do you understand me?”

“Yes, King.” It was almost a moan.

“I'm going to use you and this pretty vessel of yours, and you're going to beg me for more, like the little whore you are, aren't you, kitten?”

“Yes, King.”

“That's right.” He added another finger. “But, and this is very important, so listen, pet: you are not going to come. Do you understand me?” 

He kept drawing his fingers in and out, slow and agonizing. Cas made a soft sound which was not exactly a yes. 

“I'm going to fuck you, right up to the brink, until you feel like you can't take it anymore, and then I'm going to stop, kitten. Do you know why?”

Not a sound, just the rapid breathing, rapid heartbeat.

“Because you don't deserve it, pet. Disrespectful, insubordinate little whores don't deserve to come.”

Cas trembled but said nothing.

“Do you understand me, angel?”

“Yes, your highness,” he said, and as he did, Crowley pushed his way in, so that the last syllable dissolved into a groan.

“Good kitten,” Crowley whispered into his ear, smiling, all malice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CN: Possible triggers for emotional/psychological abuse, punishment, lack of pre-negotiation, orgasm denial, canon-typical slurs


	9. Interlude: To find forgiveness in the weeds

The first lazy slide into consciousness was like a slow dissolve. Then, like a car jerking to an abrupt stop, a sudden pang of – something – woke him the rest of the way. He was in his bed, the bedclothes arranged carefully around him. Even his suit had been hung up. After all of it, the damned angel had still taken the time to tuck him in, as though he were some tired child instead of the bloody King of Hell, and then, for the love of all that was unholy, to _tidy up_. He groaned in annoyed disbelief and closed his eyes again.

 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

 

Castiel had roared into battle with a ferocity and rage that seemed to come from some deep well within him, not the righteous wrath of the soldier of God, something that burned hotter and left him nauseous if he let himself feel it too deeply. In the moments of quiet after, that breathless, airless pause that always seemed to follow a battle, he felt brittle somehow, fragile somehow, like a lightbulb about to burst from a power surge. A few seconds later, as the wave receded, he became aware that some of the others – his followers, he reminded himself, his soldiers – were looking at him with an awe that comprehended all the ambivalence of the word in its proper sense – both awesome and awful. Into the midst of what had been an equal battle, he had descended and slaughtered the enemy, their brothers, like a cyclone laying waste to an old wooden church, almost instantaneous in its devastation, leaving nothing but broken bodies and ruin where once had been beauty and worship.

He felt sick, and triumphant. He turned and looked up, shading his eyes, a pretense of scanning the sky to avoid their gazes.

Nothing. Clear blue.

Rachel, his lieutenant, came up beside him and placed her hand on his arm, a reassurance and a question in one quiet gesture. He put his hand on hers, acknowledging her, and nodded. They stood for a moment in silence, and then she turned to his followers and began to direct them. He disappeared then, to rest apart from them. He told himself this was because his presence brought risk on them, but the visceral relief of being alone – no longer having their gazes on him, their need for him, prickling his skin – made him feel like a liar.

It was, he thought, becoming a familiar feeling.

He shut the door on that thought, and the others that were following on it like - well - like hellhounds.

A stream, he thought, flowing over the rocks in a forest; he landed beside one, somewhere miles from any humans or angels or – anyone else – and let himself breathe.

Grapevines grew up beside the stream, climbing tree branches and rocks, the leaves blazing deep red and orange in the autumn afternoon, the ripe bunches of grapes a deep clouded blue-purple that looked almost impossible. Cas carefully, reverently picked a bunch, touched the smooth skin warm from the sunlight, stood holding them as he watched the abundance of different birds fluttering in and out of the bushes to take their fill of the fruit, trilling and chattering as they played out their own fierce tiny battles in the leaves. Their lives were mesmerizing and gripping and whole and so, so fragile, and he let himself be swept up in the ephemeral beauty and drama of them; as far as they were concerned, they were the entire world, all that mattered, and if he reached out with his mind to theirs he could just barely touch the fundamental, unalterable truth of that, the purity.

He tried one of the grapes, but they were unsatisfying and sour and he gave them back to the birds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had to take a break from writing more substantial stuff for a few weeks because of personal obligations, but Castiel was unpeaceful today and I couldn't get anything done, so here are a few moments to settle the two of them down.


	10. The Best Thing That's Ever Been Mine

Castiel did not turn up in Crowley’s room that night, or the next. This was not an unusual turn of events in the abstract – they both were busy, not least with the wars they were each, separately, trying to conduct – but nonetheless it unsettled Crowley. The way things had gone the last time, he would have expected Castiel to make a positive nuisance of himself, anxious for reassurance and approval. That was what Crowley had aimed at, and it irked him a little – worried him a little – that it didn’t seem to be working. Castiel was not unpredictable, he was easy, which meant that Crowley had misjudged something. Or something was wrong.

But he went about his business. He dropped in on sales – they all stood up a little straighter and moved a little faster when they saw him, which he liked – and research – they ignored him completely, which he liked less, but should have expected. He visited the compound, called the Winchesters to pester them, even showed up to a few crossroads summonings to take care of high-profile deals. He hurried along some projects, resolved some disputes, tortured some prisoners, and checked his room a bit more often than was strictly necessary.

After a while, feeling at loose ends, he decided to borrow some books from the research division. Tiff was not pleased with his decision to take them with him, but restricted her disapproval to pointed glances and sighs.

Maggie was less circumspect. She pointed at one of the oldest tomes and then at him, with no indication whatsoever that she even knew she was speaking to the king. “Make sure you bring this one back as soon as you’re done with it.” He accepted this with what he considered admirable equanimity, and started to walk away. “And don’t you dare let anyone eat or drink near it. That includes scotch!” Al elbowed their sister in the ribs not at all sneakily and shot her an admonishing look. “Your highness,” she added with an unceremonious eyeroll.

He let it go. No point in being too concerned about observing the forms, with IRD. The most useful minds in that division were constitutionally incapable of it, and even the barest effort from them was exceptional. He brought the books into one of his meeting rooms, where a big oak table stood surrounded by comfortable chairs and lamps, and set them down carefully. Then he chose one – apocryphal draconic lore on Eve, which he hoped might have some leads for ways to incapacitate without killing her. The writing styles of apocrypha collections were always hit or miss, from dry philological jargon to nigh-unreadable academic babble to the clumsily flowery prose of religious devotees, so he was relieved to find this one technical but engrossing, if not altogether useful in the information it provided.

 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

 

Some time later, he was startled out of his reading by a polite cough, and glanced up to find Cas sitting across the table from him, his expression gravely attentive, his hands folded on the table, carefully composed. He suppressed the urge to ask where Cas had been, looked back down at the book, and turned the page. “Yes?”

“I have information.”

“What?” He didn’t look up.

“There’s an angel I used to – he used to be in the garrison with me. Balthazar. He did something – well, selfish and wrong, but – ”

“This story going somewhere, angel?” He turned another page, though he wasn’t actually reading.

“Balthazar stole many of heaven’s weapons when he disappeared. I believe he may be willing to give them to us.”

Despite himself, Crowley looked at him now, his interest piqued. “Really. Just like that?”

He nodded. “He knows Raphael will be looking for him, and even with the weapons, he’s just one angel. He can’t face an army alone.”

 “So you’ve got to convince him to go over to your side instead of Raphael’s.”

“No. Balthazar is my friend. He wouldn’t take Raphael’s side against me.”

Crowley gave him an incredulous look, received a deep frown in return.

“He’s an angel,” Cas said. “He may have gone astray, but he wouldn’t betray his friends.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows at that and said nothing.

“It’s good news, Crowley,” Cas said after a pause, a little subdued. “The weapons are powerful, and they’ll buy us time.”

“Right.” He turned another page. “Just don’t get distracted.”

Silence.

Crowley looked up, fully expecting that Cas had vanished without saying anything else. But he was still sitting there, his forehead creased with worry, running his fingers over the grain of the table intently as though it might hold the solution of a problem.

“Cas.”

He looked up.

“You’re still here.”

“Yes.”

Crowley waited. Cas didn’t say anything else, just looked back down at the table. Crowley thought for a moment, then slid a book across the table to him. “Here.” Cas gave him a quizzical glance. “If you’re staying, you might as well make yourself useful. Partner.” The slight curve of a smile touched the angel’s lips and he looked at Crowley with hopeful gratitude. Crowley just went back to reading his own book, but he felt as though some unacknowledged tension in his chest had been released and replaced with calm warmth. Somewhere in the back of his mind he found that vaguely concerning, but as he read it faded.

 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

 

A while later, getting bored with a book of anecdotes and rumors about the life of a deeply racist and tiresome New England writer who also happened to be an aspiring black magic cultist, Crowley looked up to see Castiel fully absorbed in a study of the literary forebears of Dante’s _Paradiso_.

He almost spoke, but then changed his mind. He appeared behind Cas, and instead of saying anything – Cas didn’t notice the change, too focused on reading – he leaned over and kissed his neck. Cas startled at the unexpected touch, and Crowley smiled, sprinkling more light kisses on his jawline.

“Crowley, I…” Cas shook his head, then closed his eyes, his expression softening with Crowley’s continued efforts. “I’m not done with the book,” he half-protested weakly, holding it up, and Crowley plucked it out of his hands and tossed it onto the table. It slid across and fell off. He turned the angel’s face toward him and kissed him again, this time on the mouth, insistent but still gentle. Cas kissed him back, but then he pulled away, his eyes searching Crowley’s face anxiously.

Crowley sighed. “What?”

“You’re not angry.”

“Some reason I should be?”

Cas blinked. “No,” he said cautiously, “I don’t think so.”

“All right, then.” He shrugged and leaned in for another kiss, but Cas turned aside a little, and he stopped and stood up, keeping his expression carefully neutral. Letting his frustration show at this point would only make the angel more skittish. “Yes?”

“We’re not… in your rooms.”

“Correct.” Crowley folded his arms, stared at Cas in confusion a moment. Then it dawned on him. “Our terms?”

Cas nodded, relieved.

Crowley rubbed his face and hid a smile, amusement overtaking the frustration. “Number one, your angelic penchant for strict adherence to the rules is adorable, but slightly ridiculous. Two, you think I don’t remember the terms _I bloody set_? I said you don’t bring business matters into my chambers, not that… other matters… were off-limits everywhere else.”

Cas frowned and looked off into the distance, tapping his hands, clearly trying to replay the conversation word for word. Crowley sighed. Taking hold of the angel’s chin and holding him still, he kissed him forcefully, until he stopped trying to pull away. Then he looked at his eyes, which flickered with worry. “You are overthinking this.” Cas hesitated and he kissed him again before he could say anything. “It’s very simple, angel. It’s all right because I say. Clear?”

Cas stilled for a moment and then nodded. “Clear.” His voice was very quiet, but when he looked back at Crowley his eyes were intense and focused. He took Crowley’s hand and kissed the back of it, once, softly, and then let go and waited.

“Good.” Crowley stepped back. “Up.” Cas got up. Crowley unfastened the angel’s belt, unbuttoned his trousers and slid his hand in, at the same time pushing him back against the table. He placed Cas’s hand on the front of his own trousers as he gripped the angel’s stiffening erection with his other hand. Cas fumbled for a moment and then quickly got him undone enough.

They stroked each other, Cas leaning back against the table, Crowley pressed close against him, nuzzling his throat. He heard the angel breathing harder, felt his heart speed up, and he pulled him down into a kiss, hard and fierce. Cas kissed back with abandon, as though he were coming up for air after staying a moment too long underwater, as though Crowley were the only thing in the world. The force and focus of it was consuming. It pulled Crowley in and broke over him like a wave and he lingered there in it, kissing the angel again and again. He let go of Cas’s shaft and wrapped both his arms around his waist, pulled their bodies together, grinding up against each other as their lips and breath mingled. Every sigh, every gasp resonated in Crowley’s chest, ran like electricity down to the core of him, and combined with the friction of his cock as it rubbed against Cas’s, the feeling overwhelmed him.

Finally, like diving into cold water, Crowley let go. “Lie back.” He pushed Cas backward onto the table. Cas did, still panting, his lips flushed, and Crowley pulled the angel’s trousers and boxers off, his erection – throbbingly hard and wet at the tip – springing free. He leaned down, taking it in his mouth, teasing him lightly with his tongue, then stood up, smiling a little, and stepped back. Cas looked up at him through his dark eyelashes, his cheeks reddened, his eyes bright with naked want, but said nothing.

Only then, with Cas half-dressed lying on the table and looking up at him, did Crowley realize they had no lubricant.

“Oh, for the love of sin,” he snapped, and Cas twitched, startled.

He looked around. Nothing that would work. He took one of Cas’s hands, placed it on the angel’s own cock, and said, “Carry on without me, kitten. Don’t stop and don’t come.” As Cas, looking confused, obediently began to masturbate himself, Crowley stuffed his own erection awkwardly back into his trousers, buttoned them up, and teleported to his chambers, counting down from twenty-five in his head.

He grabbed the lube out of the drawer, forcing himself to slow down, and then reappeared in the meeting room where Castiel was still lying on the table, his eyes closed and his face hot, clearly on the verge of orgasm and trying to hold himself back. “Stop.” He did, keeping his eyes closed, breathing hard, little shivers running through him. Crowley took the angel’s wrists and pressed them both to the table on either side of his head. “Don’t move these until I tell you,” he said, then kissed him. “Understand?”

“Yes, king,” Cas murmured, breathless, and Crowley began to apply the lube with one hand while he pushed the angel’s knees apart with the other. He stepped in between his thighs.

“Look at me.” Castiel did. He pushed his fingers inside, slow, unbearably slow, and then withdrew before going too deep. Cas swallowed and kept looking at him, and he did it again, thrusting in, then back out again, slowly. Again, further inside, but at the same controlled, excruciating speed. Cas took a deep, shuddering breath and tried to keep still. Then Crowley shifted, pressed himself against the angel’s entrance, just hard enough that Cas began to squirm under him, not hard enough that he found any purchase. He paused.

“You want this, kitten?” He trailed his fingers lightly up and down the length of Cas’s shaft, and an involuntary moan rose from him.

“Yes, king,” he gasped.

“Tell me what you want.” Cas shook his head, uncomprehending, and Crowley – still pressing steadily up against him – changed tack. “If you want me to fuck you, angel, beg for it.”

Cas gave him a pleading glance and then closed his eyes. Crowley forgave this, since he was trying to collect words. “Please, Crowl- king – please, king, I want it. I want you.” 

Crowley grinned and gave himself permission to be just a little bit mean. “To what?” He toyed with the angel’s cock, flicking his tongue over the tip.

Cas opened his eyes, and Crowley stood up and waited. “Fuck me,” he said finally, his gravelly voice low but unfaltering. Then he looked at Crowley’s face, his gaze again illuminated with undisguised want, and said it again, this time as though it were his own idea rather than a script he was piecing together. “Please, king, I want you to fuck me.”

Crowley just took it in for a startled moment. He had somewhat underestimated the effect the angel of the Lord looking at him with his soft blue eyes and actually asking to be fucked in so many words would have on him. Then he regained his composure and smiled. “Since you asked so nicely, kitten.” He pulled Cas’s hips up and toward him at the same time as he thrust himself forward. He watched Cas’s face – the wince softening into pleasure as he sank his cock into his arse, the little hitch in his breath and tightening of his jaw as he began to fuck him, the rhythm slow and unchanging. He kept his eyes on Crowley, pressing his hands down hard against the table, lifting his hips as though he were trying to take Crowley in deeper. “Something else you'd like to say?” Crowley said, stopping entirely, smiling, taunting.

“Please,” Cas replied simply, his voice desperate enough, close enough to a moan that Crowley’s enjoyment in tormenting his angel was entirely vanquished by how much he wanted him. He began again, no longer holding back or teasing, bracing his hands against the table as he thrust deep into Cas again and again. Cas's face changed again, surprised pleasure giving way to open sensual need, his body pushing back into Crowley's, his eyes fluttering closed as he started breathing harder. He groaned softly, wordless now, his hands - still exactly where Crowley had placed them, naturally - opening and closing like flowers as the sensations swept over him, immersed him. Light had begun to rise off his skin like steam on a cold day. Crowley watched him glowing, watched the way his eyebrows drew together and his lips parted to gasp, the way his hips rolled slightly with every stroke. 

He reached out and caressed his cheek, the light stubble rough against his fingertips, the skin flushed warm underneath it. “Good,” Crowley murmured, “Such a good, sweet kitten you are.” Cas turned his head, not opening his eyes, and kissed Crowley's fingers, and Crowley let him. His kisses were like the brush of feathers, airy and soft, and Crowley could feel, more than see, the glow of his grace on his skin. It was intoxicating, and Crowley drew a breath, let it out, placed his hand back on Cas's hip to help steady them. They moved together, Cas's body rising and falling with Crowley's motion.

He shifted his stance and Cas let out a low groan as Crowley hit his prostate. His muscles responded and Crowley felt himself nearing the edge. He slowed for a moment. “Your hand,” he said, and Cas shook his head slightly with confusion. “Give me your right hand.”

Cas opened his eyes and lifted his hand, looking at it like he was unfamiliar with the concept of hands. Crowley took it and guided it to the angel's cock, and as he returned to his previous pace, he wrapped his hand around Cas's and moved it for him up and down until he seemed clear on what to do. As soon as he did catch on, he made a soft, purring moan, falling easily into rhythm with Crowley.  

Now Crowley was breathing hard, both of them going faster as the waves of pleasure started to ripple over both of them; he leaned forward and placed a hand at the base of Cas's throat, a gentle weight, just enough to hold him where he was. Under his touch, as though being held down was the permission he needed, Castiel began to arch and writhe, his sounds becoming cries, and Crowley slammed into him, forceful and deep, his body thrumming with the electricity of their shared, mutual need. Finally the last dizzying peak was reached and they both came, hard and loud and explosive, the climax rolling over Crowley like an earthquake and then the burst of light as Castiel's followed, and they fell together, both of them shaking, both clutching each other like life preservers. 

When the room stopped spinning, Crowley laughed, as much as he could laugh when he hadn't got his breath back. Cas looked at him, not ready to form questions, but he answered anyway. “We're not in my rooms.”

Cas shook his head, squinted. Crowley laughed again, not able to explain further, and put his head down.

“And you're going to need... to get that trenchcoat dry-cleaned.”

Cas looked genuinely dismayed by this, which only made Crowley laugh harder, which made Cas squint more, which made Crowley laugh so hard he nearly passed out. Cas, though utterly baffled at what Crowley was finding so funny, did smile at his increasingly helpless laughter. He put his arm over his face since his expressions didn't seem to be helping. “Is there a good dry cleaner in hell?”

Crowley couldn't answer at all for a second. Finally he took a deep breath and composed himself enough to speak. “I'll give it to mine.” 


	11. A State of Grace

The werewolf snarled and raged on the table, struggling furiously against the restraints. Crowley watched and waited. An aqueous suspension of silver selenite – courtesy of IRD – was the first thing he’d found that had even a chance of hurting a lycanthrope this powerful, but it seemed just to be making him angry. “Don’t suppose you’re feeling chatty about dear old mummy.” The werewolf snapped at him and then settled back with a baleful glare. “I didn’t think so.” He sighed and tossed the empty syringe into a sharps container.

“What is that for?”

Crowley jumped, then turned, slowly, annoyed at being startled. “Castiel. How long have you been sitting there?”

“I just arrived.” Cas was perched on a counter by the door, a book in his lap. “Some demons – some demons came in to clean. My presence seemed to be making them uncomfortable.”

Crowley chuckled. “I’m sure it was.”

“I didn’t know where to go, so…” Cas gestured, then absently adjusted the black jacket he was wearing, with some irritation. He clearly didn’t like the jacket, but he wouldn’t like anything that wasn’t his familiar overcoat and his infuriatingly ill-fitting suit. He was actually surprisingly picky about clothes for someone who so consistently looked an utter mess.

“How… did you get that tie turned around again?” Cas shrugged and looked helpless. Crowley went over to adjust it and found it was also knotted wrong, and Cas tilted his chin up cooperatively so Crowley could fix it.

“Fenrir’s balls, would you two get a room,” the werewolf – now a handsome blonde man with a well-maintained beard and a voice Crowley found unbearably pompous – sighed.

“There are demons in the room,” Cas explained, over Crowley’s shoulder while he meticulously re-knotted the black tie and smoothed the jacket. “What was the needle for?” Cas frowned down at the tie and immediately loosened it.

“Torture,” Crowley replied and batted his hands away. “Stop that.” He fixed it.

“Oh.” He glanced over at the werewolf again regretfully and then nodded, giving Crowley a half-smile that seemed to be aiming for politeness.

Crowley raised his eyebrows. “King of Hell, darling. Anyway. We need information, he has it, and he’s withholding.”

He fidgeted with the hem of the jacket. “It didn’t… seem to work.”

“Kennel club reject is immune to everything.”

“Oh.” Cas looked down and nodded. He tried to make a casual face, which was not a skill he had mastered, and idly flipped open the book as though he were going to read it.

“Cas.” Crowley took the book away from him and set it aside. “What do you know?”

“I don’t know anything.” He shook his head.

“Fine, what don’t you know?”

Cas squinted at him in bafflement. “…Anything.”

“Castiel,” Crowley said patiently, folding his hands in front of him. “You know I don’t like it when you play games with me.”

“I’m not playing a game.”

“When I said Lord Marmaduke was immune to everything, what did you think about that you didn’t want to tell me?”

Cas hesitated. Crowley let him. “He’s a lycanthrope.”

“Yes.”

“That means he has a soul.”

Crowley waited.

When Cas finally finished the thought, his voice was very quiet, and he looked almost ashamed. “He’s not immune to me.”

“You’re an angel.”

“Yes.”

“You lot aren’t exactly known…” Crowley trailed off. It wasn’t completely true, what he had been about to say; while Castiel was not a fan of causing pain, certainly not directly, some angels had been known to torture quite fearsomely. Lucifer, obviously, was no slouch in that department, but even angels who were nominally in heaven’s employ could be incredibly vicious when they had to. Curiosity played at the edges of his thoughts, picked up where necessity left off. Maybe a little push – not too hard.

“Crowley, I don’t…”

Crowley shushed him. “You don’t want to. I know, angel.” He put his hand on Cas’s shoulder, caught his eyes, made his voice soft. “I won’t make you. You know that.” The werewolf made a disgusted noise and Crowley shot him a glare over his shoulder. “Can it, Cujo.”

Cas nodded, relieved but ambivalent, and looked at his hands.

Crowley touched his cheek, and Cas looked at him apprehensively. “But you know, don’t you, the faster we get that information, the faster we can end all this? The war. The suffering.”

“I know.”

He put his finger to Cas’s lips. “Don’t worry about it, pet. I know you don’t have the stomach for this kind of thing, even when it needs to be done. That’s what I’m here for.”

A silence, and then Cas stood up. Crowley blinked in surprise, then almost lost his balance as Cas took his face in his hands and kissed him, long and slow and soft. He kissed back. Then he composed himself. “What was that for?”

Cas just smiled a little, sadly, and then pushed Crowley gently out of the way and went to the table where the werewolf lay, laughing. Just as he opened his mouth to speak Castiel lifted his hand – stopped still for a moment, taking a breath – and then sank it into the werewolf’s chest as though into water.

Bright light burst out around him, and the werewolf started screaming, genuinely screaming, terror and pain and shock and despair bound up in a cry that rang through the chamber, deafening.

Crowley was spellbound.

He moved to Cas’s side, making sure to stay out of the light, and watched the werewolf’s face –  still completely human – contorted in his agony. Tears rolled down his face, sideways into his hair. Finally breaking the contact, Cas staggered back, shaking. The screaming did not immediately die down, but dissolved into broken, ragged sounds.

“Where is she?” The werewolf was gasping and sobbing instead of responding, and Crowley slammed his hand down on the table next to his head. “Answer me, you mange-ridden – ”

“Grassano,” he choked.

“Come again?”

“Grassano! She’s in a little – ” here he broke into sobs again “ – a little farmhouse in a village in Southern Italy. In hiding. Grassano. Please, I don’t know anything else.”

“If she’s not there – ”

But Cas stepped back to the table and looked down at the werewolf, his face coldly impassive. He was still shaking, but though Crowley could, the werewolf wouldn’t be able to tell. “If you lied, or if you left anything out, next time I won’t stop until I’ve scraped every tattered shred of your soul out of your broken body. Rest assured, you abomination, I will take… my… time. Is there anything else you’d like to say?” Crowley stared at Castiel, but Cas was intently staring at the werewolf’s face, oblivious to everything else. He placed his hand on the werewolf’s chest delicately, and he shuddered, his eyes closed, more tears squeezing out of the corners. “Answer me.”

“No. There’s nothing else. Please.”

Cas turned silently, went back to the counter, and sat down.

Crowley blinked at the werewolf and then at Cas. He was looking at his book, but blankly, as though he didn’t quite see it. Crowley was fascinated, but also a little disquieted somehow. He went to Cas and laid his hand on his shoulder. Cas put the book down and looked at Crowley. “All right, angel?”

“I’m…” Cas took a breath and let it out. The werewolf’s weeping – still – filled the silence. Cas closed his eyes against the sound. “I’m fine. Is there something else you need me to do?”

“Enough for now,” Crowley said. He leaned in, kissed him. He wanted to see how far the angel could be induced to go; making him feel safe would pay off. He smiled at him. “You’ve done perfectly.”

“Crowley,” Cas said, his eyes pleading, the little break in his voice pulling at something in Crowley’s chest, and between that and the way he had terrorized the werewolf, Crowley thought they’d better get out of there before said glorified show poodle witnessed something more interesting than kissing.

“All right, kitten. Wait here a moment.” Crowley went to the door and told one of the guards to call the hunters and tell them where to find the wolves’ matriarch. Then he called in a team to come in and return the werewolf to his confinement. Cas sat staring into the middle distance, waiting for Crowley to finish.

When he did, he had changed his mind a little. He jumped up next to Cas on the counter, sat beside him, and watched as a team of his demons – the picture of silent efficiency in their expensive but perfectly nondescript black suits – came and whisked the werewolf away.

After they had gone, shutting the door behind them, Cas, who had been rocking slightly back and forth without meaning to, turned a little toward Crowley. “Are we… are they bringing someone… something else?” He was trying very hard but did not manage to keep the dread out of his voice.

“Not til I tell them to.” He went to the door, looked outside, waved the guards a distance away, locked it, and came back.

Cas tilted his head. “…Do you want me to go?”

Crowley pulled him off the counter by the jacket into a kiss, and then turned him and pushed him backward into the wall. “Oh no, stay,” he said lightly, and grinned.

Cas looked at him, then at the table where the werewolf had been, conflicted. “Here?”

“Here.”

“I – ”

“Kitten,” he said, half-joking in his sternness, “keep questioning me if you want to, but do remember that I can certainly find something to gag you with in this room.”

Castiel, with some effort, pulled his gaze away from the table and looked at Crowley. “…Yes, King.”

“And the guards are… very accustomed to the sound of screaming.”

“Yes, King.” He pulled at the fabric of the coat, averting his eyes now. Crowley took the jacket off him, let it drop. Cas looked down at it, uncertain.

“Now, do you have anything further to add?” Crowley asked solicitously.

“No, King.”

“Excellent,” he said, and kissed him. “You’ve been so exceptionally good, kitten, and I would hate to have to punish you.”

Cas gave him a look of distress, his hands clenched tightly into fists. It was plain that he was trying to hold himself together by sheer force of will, and Crowley was unraveling it. Crowley met his glance calmly and took his hands. 

“What you're feeling right now, darling, it will pass,” he said gently. “You did what needed to be done. You crossed a line you didn’t want to cross, for the right reasons. Trust me, angel, I know evil, and even though you may not feel like it now, what you did was... righteous.”

“I don't feel righteous. I feel lost.”

“You’re not lost.” Cas nodded, unconvinced and unconvincing, shifting from right to left foot. “But you feel like you've done something wrong. You feel like you deserve to be punished.” Cas made no response. Crowley released his hands and took hold of his wrist. “Angel, look at me.” He did, his eyes hopeless, resigned. Crowley met his gaze and touched his cheek, steadying him. Then he took a step back, led him by the wrist to the table where the werewolf had been restrained. Cas let himself be led, though his increasing distress at approaching that table showed in his face and his other hand's fidgeting. Crowley gave him a moment, standing there beside it. Then he spun him, pinned him up against the table with his wrist held tight.

“What you did was right, kitten,” he said softly. He grasped the back of his neck and pushed him down onto the steel surface. Cas went down easily, though his breathing stopped a moment, and Crowley could feel how afraid, how uncertain he was. “You need punishment, so that's what I'll give you. But your guilt, your shame, all that stops now.”

Cas did not reply. Crowley wrenched his arm up hard enough to elicit a little gasp of pain, then he gave a bit of slack and used one of the leather straps attached to the other side of the table to fasten it there. Cas pulled a little against the restraint, and Crowley stepped back and let him. Then he returned, unfastened Castiel's belt, and slipped the pants down over his hips, the silk boxers – the only article of new clothing Cas had not objected to overmuch – making it easier to remove them. 

“With me, sweetheart?”

Cas took a breath. He tried to speak. Finally, he managed it, though his voice shook a little. “Yes, King.”

“Good.” He caressed the angel, his back, his buttocks, his thighs. “I'll give you thirty strokes with my hand. Then ten with the belt.” He ran gentle fingertips down the cleft of his arse, brushed the sensitive flesh of his balls. Cas inhaled sharply and shivered at the touch. “You... pet... are going to count.”

The first blow rang out loudly even with the layer of silk between Crowley's skin and Castiel's. He struck him hard, the palm open against the fullest part of his buttocks, a stinging smack that he knew would hurt enough to temporarily remove the angel's ability to speak.

It was therefore just a little bit cruel of him to use the tone of a reprimand when he admonished, “I said count.”

Castiel closed his eyes tight and spoke, his low voice steady now, clear. “One.”

Crowley began with strong, satisfying single smacks, spaced evenly with plenty of time for the angel to feel each subtle inflection, each echo of each blow as it died out and left his skin sensitized for the next one. By twenty, he was interspersing sharp, brutal arrhythmic rapid-fire cracks that left Cas struggling to keep count. He pulled down the angel's boxers, leaving him bare, and pressed him to the table with a hand between his shoulderblades, firm and unyielding. The light of Cas's grace glowed around them both. He finished with a resounding slap angled to hit each inner thigh, giving Cas just enough time to gasp out “Twenty-nine. Thirty.” 

He paused for a moment, listening to the angel's quick, shuddering breath, the small noises of him shaking against the table. He released Cas's wrist from the restraint, and Cas didn't move a centimeter. Crowley leaned in a little, spoke quietly.

“Because you've been so very good so far, kitten, I'm giving you permission to take a moment to prepare yourself. Don't get up, but you can reposition your body, fidget if you need to, let yourself settle. I'll continue only when you tell me you're ready.”

Cas froze for a second, as though confused, but then he seemed to accept that Crowley wasn't playing some sort of trick and he rearranged himself silently, untwisting his arm and straightening his stance, his breathing slowing and deepening as he relaxed. After a moment, his head laid on his arms, he gave a little nod. 

“Are you ready, pet?” Crowley gripped the back of his neck firmly and he drew in a breath.

“Yes, your highness.”

“Then count for me.”

The belt, he knew, hurt a lot more than the hand. Castiel cried out with every stroke, bucked up against Crowley's hand and body pressing him down, counted dutifully but always after a delay. The stripes from it were bright red and raised, criss-crossing the skin that was already a deep pink from the rest. 

“Eight.” His voice was strained and hoarse now.  _Crack._ “...Nine.” Crowley stopped and waited until the tremors of pain died down.  _Crack._ He groaned, gritted his teeth.“Ten!” 

Crowley stopped, setting the belt down, feeling the angel's heartbeat, feeling the warmth of his grace.

“Perfect, kitten,” he said. He leaned down and pressed light, tender kisses to the hot red welts he had left on Cas's skin. “No more guilt. You've been punished more than enough, and now I'm telling you – I'm ordering you – to let it go.”

“Yes, King.” Cas paused. “Thank you, your majesty.”

Crowley thought that might be the first time he'd ever heard anyone say that and mean it. He helped Cas stand up, and kissed him, and meant that too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Torture, punishment


	12. This Daydream is Dangerous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have any triggers please (please) check and heed the warnings in the endnotes before reading. I hate to risk being spoilery, but I'd rather have readers tread with caution even if it means a little bit of Dramatic Effect(TM) goes out the window.

“Hands, sweetheart.”

Crowley cuffed his wrists behind him carefully and then, both hands on his bare shoulders, pressed him down onto his knees. He kissed Castiel's neck. The pulse beat slow and steady under his lips. “Lovely, kitten,” he whispered, his lips brushing Cas's ear. “So good, so trusting.” Unbidden, Cas leaned his head back against Crowley's shoulder. Crowley could feel, more than see, the soft light emanating from his skin. He hadn't known if it would, with the Enochian sigils engraved on the restraints suppressing his angelic powers, but grace seemed to remain in effect regardless. He stayed there a moment, resting his hand on Castiel's shoulder. Then he smiled and went to the desk.

When Crowley turned back to him, though, Cas was suddenly tense, pulled out of his reverie. He looked up at Crowley, brow furrowed. Then he shook his head to clear it. Crowley frowned. Castiel was always receiving angel radio and assorted prayers, but when he was immersed in a scene he usually had no problem tuning them out.

“What is it, pet?” Cas shook his head, looking at the floor. Crowley caught a hint of evasiveness. Unwelcome irritation prickled up like frost. “Castiel,” he said, his voice silky and deceptively patient, “you know I don’t like to repeat myself. When I ask you a question, _you bloody well answer it_.” Cas glanced back up at him, pained.

“I.” He closed his eyes, swallowed hard. “It's... a prayer. King.”

“And?”

“It's.”

Crowley waited. The irritation was building. He knew already.

“It's Dean,” he said, his low voice almost too quiet to hear. “Dean Winchester is praying to me.”

“I see.”

A swift, casual flick of his hand and Cas slammed into the wall; it buckled with the blow. Gasping, wind knocked out of him by the shock, he hung there as if pinned. He looked wide-eyed at Crowley, his panic a half-step from fury.

“Now you listen to me, kitten,” Crowley said, the words almost a snarl. “You are with me. Your undivided attention should be on me. Me, not that overrated, emotionally stunted, pretty-boy closet case or his mopheaded brother. I am your first and only priority.”

He gestured again. Cas was hurled into the opposite wall, and when Crowley released him he crumpled. He leaned against the wall trying to catch his breath, his body shaking. There were craters in the walls where he had hit them. Crowley made a note to have them repaired. He stepped in front of Cas, his voice still sharp with anger. “Prayers or not. Winchesters or not. So long as you're here, you're mine. Are we clear?”

Cas glanced away for a moment, then met Crowley's stare. “Yes, King.” His eyes were clouded with distress, and Crowley looked back evenly until he lowered them again. “I’m sorry,” he added.

Crowley didn’t answer. Instead, he leaned down and pulled Castiel up to his knees. He swayed but stayed upright. Without a word, Crowley unzipped his trousers and, both hands firm on the back of Castiel's head, pushed his cock between the angel's lips. At first Cas seemed confused, not quite responding, but after a moment he relaxed enough to let Crowley take control.

As he felt himself getting firmer, he pushed deeper and faster, and Castiel let him, his eyes closed, his head bobbing slightly with the movement of Crowley's hips. He was starting to slip back under, to relax into it, so Crowley thrust deeper, savagely, harder, not letting up as Cas tensed and looked up at him with alarm.

“Don't forget, kitten, Dean Winchester doesn't know what you really are.” He held him firmly, not letting him rock backward, now pounding into his mouth. “You think he'd understand? If he knew just how eager you are to bend over for the king of hell? How _desperate_ you sound when you're begging for my cock? You think he'd ever look you in the eye again?”

Finally he stopped, withdrawing a step with one hand wrapped around his slick shaft. Cas was breathing hard, overwhelmed, looking at Crowley with a mix of betrayal, apprehension, and guilt. Crowley looked him up and down, his raw lips and his wide wounded eyes and his hands cuffed behind him, and for a moment the urge to finish what he’d started – to smash the defenseless angel to pieces like a fallen porcelain tree-topper – was so strong he couldn’t think in words.

But he had been at this for centuries, and he hadn’t gotten as far as he had by acting rashly on every overwhelming demonic impulse that happened to occur to him. Stay in control, wait for the right moment. No matter how good it would feel – and oh, right now, it would feel… divine. His imagination was on fire. So he paused, waited for it to subside.

When it did, Castiel was staring at him less with hurt than with horror. He was absolutely still now, not fidgeting, no longer shaking, but almost painfully tense, his back rigid, his muscles taut. Crowley knew his eyes had gone red for a moment; for all he knew, the angel had felt exactly what he had wanted to do to him, and just how much he had wanted to do it. Judging by the look on his face, he had certainly felt enough.

“Don’t worry, angel,” he said, mocking, knowing that tone only sharpened his fear and confusion. “After all, you're such a _useful_ little whore. Not to mention expensive. Couldn't bear to waste all the souls I've spent on you.” Castiel averted his eyes at the slur, didn't look up again, his jaw tight with pain.

After a moment contemplating this result, Crowley stepped behind him and knelt down, pressing close. He wrapped an arm around his waist, letting his erection – pulsing rock-hard with the heady combination of his still-simmering anger and the angel’s fear – lay against his body. He ran a hand over the slight curve of Cas’s hip, down into the soft hair, around his cock, and chuckled. “Oh, kitten. Remind me to scare you more often.” Cas shuddered and leaned back against Crowley, the small gesture half-plea, half-surrender. Crowley, much to his own surprise, was tempted. Then he thought of Dean bloody Winchester, the unconcealed worship in Castiel's eyes when he looked at him. He gripped the angel's throat instead. 

With his other hand, he applied lube, messy and sufficient. He did not bother to prep the angel before easing himself in. His breath caught in his throat at the tightness of him, and Castiel gasped, his bound hands twisting against each other, pressed between him and Crowley. Crowley tightened his grip on Cas's neck. “Too much for you, angel?” he taunted softly, sliding out and then in again, the slowness of his movement a slight concession, the only one he was inclined to give. He groaned with pleasure as he felt Cas squirm against him, felt an inaudible whimper vibrate against his fingers. “But you're going to take it, because you're my good little plaything. Isn't that right?” It was becoming easier going, and he began to move a little faster.

“Answer me.”

“Yes, King.” Cas's voice was quiet, between little gasps as Crowley fucked him. Crowley bit down on the angel's shoulder, hard enough to leave marks, and felt his body respond to the pain, tensing and slackening. Crowley thought he would make him leave the marks – not heal them with the rest when he healed his vessel from battle. Castiel, facing the other angels, facing the Winchesters, as though he was the same righteous, powerful angel he had always been, while knowing that he was marked, secretly, as the exclusive property of the king of hell. Just irresistible.

As his orgasm rolled over him, a shuddering electric thrill of malicious triumph came with it, and his finishing thrusts felt almost as good as a killing blow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Trust violation, abusive BDSM practices (topping while angry), abusiveness in general. Despite the opener, this is not a nice chapter, and the line-treading with regard to consent is only gray-area if you squint real hard.


	13. Nothing Safe is Worth the Drive

Over the past few days Castiel had found himself, despite his preference for solitude, spending more and more time in playgrounds and parks. He knew why, much as he didn’t want to think about it: Crowley disliked children, the noise and the mess, and Castiel felt knots in his stomach at the thought of being alone with Crowley again. He sat on a park bench and watched the frost glistening on the painted wood, the sunset casting its colors over the hills and the bare trees. He waited for night to fall.

The bite mark in his shoulder was still there, not healing. It would remain as long as he left it. When he touched it, even through his coat, the edges of the world softened, with a small sting of physical pain and a sharp plummet downward, like falling to earth. He felt steadied by it, calmed, secure. There had been other marks, welts and bruises on his vessel, that he had quietly chosen to leave there longer than they needed to be for precisely that reason. He hadn’t told even Crowley that, had always healed them before he returned to him, unsure if he was fully allowed the strange comfort they brought him, feeling not exactly ashamed but somehow as though he ought to be. This one was all the more potent because he knew it was supposed to be there.

But this peace had a high price. Crowley had wrecked him, had left him unmoored and terrified and shaken in restraints that took away his angelic power and left him locked in his vessel, nearly human in his weakness, and when he came back finally to release him, he had smiled and called him kitten and dared him to heal that mark. He understood the king of hell well enough now to know that the dare was a threat, that if he came back without Crowley’s teeth in his skin he would pay for his audacity one way or another. If he stopped, used the Enochian phrase that Crowley had chosen for him to ask for mercy, there would be a different kind of punishment: he knew better than to think he would get out unscathed. He was stronger than Crowley, of course, but for that to matter he would have to be willing to resist him, even to smite him if necessary. He felt ill, as though the world beneath him was shaking apart, at the idea. One way or another, Crowley would not be dissuaded from exacting revenge. The mark stayed.  

The ache in his chest did not fade either, even as he recuperated from battle. He hadn’t been to see Dean since that day, since he had showed up hours late and still lost after Crowley had finally let him leave, since Dean had given him that look that combined concern and disappointment and Castiel had promised him everything would be all right. It wouldn’t. He had looked into Dean’s beautiful green eyes and known, with a certainty as absolute as grace, that whatever else Crowley may have been, he was also right. Dean would never be able to truly understand, would never look at him the same way again if he knew what Castiel was, what he had done, what he was willing to do.

Sometimes, for a moment, he would find himself irrationally resentful, angry and upset with Dean for a betrayal he hadn’t even committed yet, for the inevitability of his refusal to accept what had happened. He would play and replay the argument in his head, though he never had the heart to follow it to its conclusion, when – he knew – Dean would ultimately give up on him. Would, in the end, turn away. No matter how many times Castiel pictured it, he could find no way to prevent that outcome. He should have known. He had first struck the match when he gave Crowley the five-minute conversation he’d asked for; by the time he had knelt at his feet, had submerged himself in the fullness and light of angelic devotion, had given himself over in all his trust and his need to the king of hell, the bridge was long since ablaze. And so he stayed away. But now Dean needed him, now that Balthazar had used him and his brother as a diversion so that Castiel would have to face him or lose him to Raphael.

Balthazar could be remarkably troublesome that way.

Castiel stood up and brushed off his coat and prepared to play his part.

 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

 

Crowley knew Cas would show up at Bobby Singer’s house soon enough. Now as he sat on the couch, sipping his drink (after seeing what Bobby had to offer last time he’d been unfortunate enough to visit, he’d brought his own), he waited for him to finish his little spat with the Winchester brothers, a pleasure enhanced by the way the angel had been trying to avoid looking at him since the three of them arrived.

Cas turned to Moose and Squirrel. They were standing by the broken window looking disapproving and self-righteous. The angel was angry, but he was also clearly phoning it in – Crowley being there had him off his game. “When will I be able to make you understand? If I lose against Raphael, we all… lose… everything.”

“Yeah, Cas, we know the stakes. That's about all you've told us!” Dean was close to shouting, and Cas seemed to shift in response, as though the weight on him had grown suddenly heavier.

He spoke again, earnestly this time, sadness in his low voice. “I'm sorry about all this. I'll explain when I can.” He disappeared, and Crowley followed.

They landed in a park, bright in the sun, bustling with screaming children and their obnoxious chattering parents.  Crowley looked at Castiel. He was still not looking back. The entertainment value of that routine was starting to wear a bit thin, but as Crowley was about to say so, as though on cue, Castiel turned toward him.

“Is there something that you need?” he asked haltingly, his tone careful, neutral, polite.

Crowley rolled his eyes. “No, ducky. Just enjoy the sounds of infants squalling and four-year-olds screeching.”

“Why were you in Bobby Singer’s house?”

“Well, as I just said, I so enjoy listening to squalling infants.”

Cas shifted and looked back out at the playground. “Please stop answering my questions with sarcasm.”

“Not likely. But I must say I’m impressed you caught on.”

“Now you’re being patronizing.”

“Getting better at recognizing that too, aren’t we.”

“Yes. Why were you in Bobby Singer’s house?”

“Knew you’d turn up there sooner or later.”

Cas nodded, watched the humans. A little girl was playing in the sand alone, and some boys were chasing each other through the equipment.  Crowley sat down on the other end of the bench.

“What do you want, Crowley?”

“We need to talk.”

“About?”

“The God weapons. Your angel friend got them for you.”

“And?”

“And I want my cut.”

“I wasn’t aware you had one.”

“Course I do, angel. I run Hell, not the bloody March of Dimes.”

He frowned. “The weapons of heaven weren’t part of our deal.”

“Neither were the advances I gave you, but here we are.”

Cas looked down. He fidgeted with the sleeve loop on his jacket, buttoning and unbuttoning it. “I’d hardly call those charity.”

“Beside the point.”

“Which is?”

“You owe me.”

Castiel looked at him out of the corner of his eye. He thought about it for a moment, then sighed. “All right. One weapon, Crowley.”

Crowley smiled. “Five.”

“Three.”

“Deal.”

 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

 

“A storage unit?”

“Yes.”

“You keep the weapons of heaven in a storage unit?”

“Yes.”

“How did you even get a storage unit?” He imitated Cas’s low, gravelly monotone. “‘Hello, I’m an angel of the Lord. Please accept this money in exchange for one of your “units” ’” – he made air-quotes mockingly – “‘to hide these holy weapons from the archangel Raphael’? How’d that go over?”

Cas turned and began fidgeting with the latch on one of the crates. “I had help,” he muttered.

Crowley gave the back of his head an icy stare. “Ah.”

“Crowley, please…” Cas’s shoulders rose a little, his hands stilling on the crate. He didn’t look at Crowley. “Just… choose your weapons.”

“Fine, kitten. We’ll talk about this later.”

“I…” Cas did turn then. He plucked at his coat. Crowley raised his eyebrows, waited. Cas crossed his arms. “All right.”

Crowley grinned. Then he started opening crates and examining the contents. He lifted a gorgeous, ancient blade wrapped in leather out of the crate and examined it. The silver of the hilt was untarnished despite its apparent age.

“That’s the Sword of Judith,” Cas said tentatively.

“You don’t think I recognize the blade that beheaded Holofernes?” He shot Cas an irritated look. “I’m not a complete imbecile, Castiel.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Honestly, don’t you have some kind of battle you could be fighting? Go smite someone instead of hovering over my shoulder, angel.”

Cas hesitated.

“What, now you don’t trust me?” Crowley gave Cas a sardonic smile and he glanced away quickly. Crowley opened another crate, tossed the lid aside. “I don’t break deals. Three weapons, then I’ll leave. No angelic supervision required.”

When he looked back, Cas was gone. He lifted out the wooden chest that contained the Rod of Aaron. He could feel the power rising off it; the air practically vibrated. It was far and away the most powerful and dangerous weapon in the whole place. He looked around. Of course, this was an unmatched opportunity for reconnaissance, examining the arsenal of heaven without any pesky angels looking on, and he wouldn’t waste it. The two remaining weapons were practically a bonus. He smiled to himself and got started.

 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

 

Crowley was becoming annoyed. He didn’t mind Cas’s changed attitude so much, didn’t mind the frisson of fear like an aura around the angel prickling across his skin. He did mind the fact that Cas was avoiding him. He did mind that when Cas looked at him, his anxious longing seemed mixed with suspicion, even reproach.

He had never done well with intransigence. Patience was not one of his virtues. One of the benefits of being the king was being able to gut people for being intransigent, but of course he couldn’t gut Castiel, not when he was the only thing standing between Raphael and the destruction of everything Crowley had worked for. He found that fact profoundly irritating.

He applied himself to torture more vigorously the longer Cas stayed away, relishing the blood, the fear, the suffering. The more merciless and ingenious his cruelties became, though, the more sharply he felt his dissatisfaction. So many of the monsters were simple brutes, nothing delicate or complex in them, no sense of poetry. There was nothing stimulating about his control over them – it was just a matter of inflicting pain in sufficient quantities to crush their resistance. Easy, uninspired, uninspiring.

He missed his angel.

The next time he went down to IRD, he asked the Furies for an alteration in the spellwork and warding in his rooms, to notify him immediately of angelic presence. He tried to be discreet about it, but Maggie rolled her eyes at him and Al grinned like the Cheshire cat. Word had gotten around, much to his irritation, but so far it seemed contained to relatively high-ranking demons, and as long as it stayed that way he had better things to do than hunt down the source of the leak. Tiff, the most helpful and also the most oblivious of the three, drew him a sigil and typed out rambling, elaborate instructions for a spell that would keep his warding intact while making him instantly aware if Castiel did show up, no matter where he was at the time.

He was sitting in on a meeting of division heads that was just finishing up – incredibly dull for the most part, although a rising star named Simmons had some interesting ideas about artifact management which could be useful in light of what Crowley now knew about the God weapons – when the signal came. The shadow of the sigil Tiff had drawn for him appeared in his eyes like the black spot that follows a flash. He stood up and left abruptly.

When he got back to his rooms – not rushing, he wouldn’t give up that much dignity, but also not stopping to chat with any of the guards or workers on the way – he came in to find Castiel sitting on his bed, holding the Enochian cuffs, looking at them with a sort of bemused unhappiness. Crowley felt a pang of something he told himself was annoyance. 

He looked at the angel. Cas could have chosen plenty of other places to meet; he could have appeared in that meeting in the middle of the table, if he had wanted to. He chose Crowley’s rooms. No ambiguity. Just the same, Crowley preferred to be certain. He closed the door behind him.

At the sound Cas started, then looked up at Crowley. He paused a moment, seemed to make a decision. “Hello, your highness.”

Crowley smiled. “Hello, kitten.”


	14. When the Music's Gone

“Hello, kitten.” Castiel stood up, still holding the cuffs gingerly. He fluttered around a little, formulating words, and then stepped toward Crowley. Before he managed to speak, Crowley said, “You were avoiding me.”

“I’m here now.”

Crowley bit back a sarcastic response. “I see that,” he replied mildly. He went and sat down at the table. Cas followed, then stood next to the table, folding and unfolding his hands.

“I’m sorry.”

Crowley picked up a glass. Cas filled it quickly. “Don’t avoid me, Castiel. It tries my patience and it wastes my time. Do you want to waste my time?”

“No, your highness,” he said quietly.

“Are you going to sit down?”

Cas frowned in confusion. “Do… do I…”

He chuckled. “Sit down, angel.”

He did, pulling on the buttons of his coat. “Crowley, I…”

Crowley gave him a warning look. “Careful.”

Cas rocked back and forth a little. “I’m sorry. King.” Crowley nodded and sipped his drink. “I have to talk to you. About… about last time.”

“You really don’t.”

“I do. It was…”

“Stop talking.”

Cas looked at him unhappily.

“You made a mistake last time. You were punished for it. Don’t make this into more than it is.”

“I came here to… Crowley, I came here to talk about this.”

Crowley set his drink down and leaned forward. “You are dangerously close to the limits of my patience, kitten.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you done?”

“I…”

“Sorry, I was unclear. You’re done. Now. You can leave if you want to.” He took a drink. “Or stay. But quietly.”

“Crowley, you wanted to kill me.”

“Castiel, I want to kill you right now.”

“You can’t. I’m an angel.”

Crowley stood up. “Well, I really can, but that’s beside the point.”

He moved behind Castiel’s chair. The angel tensed, took a breath, let it out. “Please, Crowley.”

Crowley smiled venomously. “Are you begging, kitten?”

“I’m…”

Crowley grasped his throat, his grip unyielding and tight. He felt the angel swallow and struggle for breath.  He was still smiling. He began tightening his grip, enough to hurt, and Cas’s eyes fluttered closed as his breathing became more labored. “You should be. Begging. You have done nothing but defy me since I arrived. You should be begging me for forgiveness. And believe me, kitten, I’ll make you, before you’re done here.”

He was taking a breath to threaten further when his hands were scalded, like they’d been unexpectedly dunked in holy water but more intense. He jerked away, startled, and Castiel stood up. He turned, and his eyes were glowing bright blue, and Crowley stepped back, his anger overtaken by dread.

Just as suddenly as it began, the light coming off the angel died away and he looked sick, regretful. He knelt, his head bowed, his eyes lowered, and spoke softly. “Your highness.”

Crowley just stared at him.

“I am sorry.” He took Crowley’s hand gently and kissed it and the residual pain lifted in a flood of warmth. Crowley pulled his hand away. “I never wanted… I would never… I’m sorry. I… Crowley, I’m here because I… I need to be. I need… I need your help. But I… I can’t do this, I can’t be here if - ”

“Then get out, angel.” Crowley turned away and drank the rest of his scotch in one go, then went to the door and opened it. Cas stayed where he was, staring at his hands in his lap, and then looked up at Crowley, his eyes full of pain.

“Your highness, please.”

“No. You broke the rules, kitten. I have no use for an angel who can’t do the one thing angels are good for. Get out.”

Castiel stood. He walked to the door, then turned, his hands folded, his voice careful. “May… may I ask what… if our terms still apply?”

Crowley sighed and pushed him out the door. He closed it behind him. “Yes, you naïve, feather-brained infant, our  _deal_ is still in effect. I still need the souls. So do you. Come back to hell when you have something valuable to give me, when you have information I need, or when you need my help  _finding Purgatory._ Right now, get out of my sight.”

Castiel looked at him and disappeared.

Crowley went back into his room. He drank and tried not to think about what had just happened too deeply. The angel would be back, and Crowley would make him pay with interest for the inconvenience and distraction, and then the new Devil would show the new God mercy he didn’t deserve by letting him redeem himself. He would be generous. The gratitude would be worth it.

Visions of dead Winchesters were dancing in his head. There was no reason to keep them alive, except that it would upset his angel to kill them; that was almost a bonus at this point. He could wait them out, these mayflies, but by now they had defied death so many times that he couldn't be sure even old age would stop them annoying him. It was, after all, their fault that he'd lost the angel in the first place. If Dean hadn't distracted Cas at just the wrong moment, he would never have lost control of his anger, would never have had reason to shut the angel down. He had had no choice. The Winchesters hadn't given him one.  

There had to be some way for him to put an end to this, some painful and poetic way to take them out of commission and make sure the angel couldn't bring them back. He went to talk to IRD.  

 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

 

Castiel could barely think.

He tossed the cuffs into one of the crates in the storage unit. The king of hell should never have had them in the first place, but in this room in particular that seemed an especially unconvincing excuse for having taken them; after all, Crowley had three of the weapons of heaven, and some restraints with Enochian engravings were hardly as pressing. Guilt twisted his insides into knots when he looked at them. He quickly closed and locked the crate, then took himself to a lakeside, desolate and cold.

He had gone back to Crowley because he needed, desperately, to recover his focus. His distress was becoming increasingly distracting, and he knew that Crowley could settle his spirit, if he chose to. But he had made the mistake of asking for more than Crowley could give him. He should have known better. He broke the rules, and he felt the result with a certain strange satisfaction: actions still had consequences, causes had effects.

A flock of geese were settled on the water, small graceful shadows against the darkening gray sky. The clouds were low and heavy. The waves washed up over the sand and pebbles. Castiel sat down on a rock near the water’s edge, where beach spiders scuttled and burrowed and clung to the driftwood. He inhaled the smells of the lake, the moisture of the air, and as he sat gazing out on the tossing waves, he tried, desperately, to bring himself back into focus. 

He was adrift.

Leaning down, he picked up a smooth, tan, spiral-shaped shell and turned it in his fingers. It was empty, of course (he wouldn't have disturbed a living snail). He admired the gentle swell of the base, ran his fingers over the graceful whorl, touched the delicate point at the top, pressing it into the pad of his fingertip. It was delicate and thin-walled, with a pearlescent shine, soft and smooth to the touch. 

He wanted to see Dean, but he couldn't bear to talk to him. Crowley wouldn't help him. He knew what he had to do, but there were no tracks to follow, no path from where he stood to what he needed. 

He connected his mind to the buzzing vastness of angel radio, and he called out to Balthazar.

 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

 

They were standing in Balthazar’s mansion talking and looking out the bay windows when a rise of flutes, melodic and maudlin, began to play from the radio. Balthazar turned off the sound with a wave of his hand. “Ugh.” He turned back to the window and then smiled. “Wait… I just had the most brilliant idea.” An image flashed in Castiel's mind, and he squinted at his friend in confusion.

“The  _Titanic_?”

“It wouldn't even be all that difficult, Cas.”

“I'm not concerned with its difficulty. Undoing a historical event of that magnitude could have catastrophic effects, Balthazar. You know how dangerous that is.”

“Just leave all that to me.”

“There has to be another way.”

“To get 50,000 souls overnight? Ah yes, let me just pull them out of my – ”

Cas half-smiled, shook his head. “You don't have souls there, Balthazar.”

“Well, my point exactly!” Balthazar looked somewhat too pleased with himself. “That's why we have to bring out the big guns, Cas.” Cas started to say something and Balthazar stopped him. “I mean time travel. That's why we have to alter the timelines, or we won't be able to find any more souls.”

“All right. But I don't… it's very important that we ensure the effects don't involve…”

“I know, I know. Certain causalities which must remain remain intact, and so on and so forth.”

“And - ”

“And your human boyfriend with the pretty face will be fine, along with his brother. I know what I'm doing, Castiel.”

"He's not my - ”

"Oh please." Balthazar rolled his eyes and grinned at Cas mischievously. "This is going to be fun." He disappeared.

 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

 

When Crowley arrived in the research division, the Furies were being accosted by a petite blonde with glasses and an expression of profound pedantic annoyance. “The _Titanic_ ,” she said, her voice hushed but furious. “April 14, 1912! It was a significant historical event! You’re the Furies! You are supposed to know these things!”

“Atropos, if it was in an altered timeline – ”

She slammed her hands down on the desk in front of Al. “Allecto, the timeline wasn’t altered! _This_ timeline was altered!”

“Well, I mean, all timelines are … are in some way altered, in the sense that…”

The blonde sighed. “Tisiphone, please. You know what I mean.”

“… that all timelines are in some way divergences from the original, I mean, there is no original, in that there is no single timeline which – ”

“Tiff!” Maggie swatted at her sister to get her attention.

Atropos looked up, swallowed, collected her patience. “This timeline is… is completely off-book. I have the book, do you understand? Divergences are normal, everything is diverging, but we are always, _always_ supposed to remain on book!”

Crowley approached, curious and courteous. “Ladies. Al. Who is this lovely – ”

“And you! You’re not even supposed to _be_ here!” The blonde shook her head, as if she were offended at Crowley’s existence. “You’re certainly not – ”

Al waved their hands. “Atropos, let’s stay on topic.”

“An _angel_ un-sank _the Titanic_!”

Crowley cleared his throat. “Which angel?”

Atropos whirled on him. “What?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Which. Angel. Un-sank your ship.”

“His name is Balthazar.” She gestured in annoyance. “And it wasn’t my ship.”

“All right, darling. Let me help you out.”

“I don’t know you,” she said, glaring at him.

“Even so. This helps both of us. I happen to know that Balthazar is acting on orders from an angel named Castiel.”

Atropos rolled her eyes and groaned in disgust. “I know all about Castiel.”

“Then you know that if you’d like Castiel to fix your… book, or timeline, or whatever it is you want, your best bet is to use the Winchesters.”

Atropos shook her head, giving him a disgusted look. “I’m Fate, you presumptuous, bean-counting little…”

“Yes, very impressive.”

“So you don’t need to explain the Winchesters to me. I’m done here.” Atropos disappeared, a burst of fire blazing in the air.


	15. Never Ever (Ever) Getting Back Together

After plucking the boys from the path of Atropos’ destruction, Castiel had left Balthazar to his business and stood in the junkyard waiting for Sam and Dean to wake up. He had left them the memory, carefully checked for evidence that Balthazar’s meddling in history had been about anything more than some pop culture reference. He blamed Fate, and they took the cue easily.  

He looked at Dean. The man was oblivious, utterly unaware that what had happened wasn’t some one-off freak event, ultimately meaningless, brought on by Balthazar’s whimsy. His heart ached. But if he could just make Dean understand why, why he would go so far, why he had to defeat Raphael at any cost, this whole botched effort might, perhaps, be worth it.

“You're the ones who taught me that you can make your own destiny. You don't have to be ruled by fate. You can choose freedom. I still believe that that's something worth fighting for. I just wanted you to understand that.”

Dean looked around. “So, wait. Did...Balthazar really, uh, unravel the sweater over a chick flick?”

“Yes. Absolutely that's what he did,” Castiel lied, and as Dean made some humorous remark about the movie, he disappeared, before anyone thought to question him further.

 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

 

Crowley was in a rage. Of course he had plenty of ways to work off that anger, plenty of destruction to wreak, but the fact that he couldn’t attack the sources directly compounded the frustration. He paced the floor. Atropos hadn’t touched the Winchesters, because Castiel, naturally, had been willing to give up 50,000 souls to save them. Most of the beings in this timeline didn’t remember it at all, but he had taken precautions.

Even though Dean and Sam had avoided destruction, Cas had at least lost the 50,000 souls, making it that much more urgent for him to find Purgatory. That result was worth the minimal effort it had cost Crowley to nudge Atropos toward Castiel instead of Balthazar. But now the apparently indestructible Wonder Twins had managed to find out about phoenix ash, and since his angel wasn’t exactly forthcoming with information lately, he had learned that from the demons who watched the package be delivered to Singer’s house. They had the means to kill Eve. If they weren’t stopped, they would ruin his best potential source of information on Purgatory. And Castiel, unwary creature that he was, had helped them.

That failure had at least been unintentional. The angel was foolish, short-sighted, but this was not disloyalty. It was still, of course, infuriating, and he added it to the list of things he would enjoy exacting penance for, but it wasn’t an insult.  

The information leak was another matter.

Somehow, rumors of his partnership with Castiel had gotten as far as the angels; his own spies had gotten the information back and brought it to him. So far it seemed limited, but there was no excuse for it to have gotten that far in the first place. He had some more trustworthy demons hunting down the source of the leak, and he would be sure to make an example of them, but for now he was furious and there was nothing he could do about it. He sat down and tried to read, but mostly he just seethed.

 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

 

Castiel waited for his mind to settle. He felt frighteningly out of control, frighteningly distant from himself, from all that he knew and believed. He felt like the stars were falling out of the sky, like the seas were turning to blood. He could see no order, no sense in the directionless churning of the world, no benevolent intent in creation. He felt like he was becoming empty, being turned inside out. He felt lost.

He had killed many, many angels by now. It was civil war, after all, and all of the heavenly host had blood on their hands. But killing Rachel was different. He knew she had been trying to kill him; he knew he wouldn’t have escaped with his life if he hadn’t fought back. But she did not deserve to die, certainly not at the hands of her brother, certainly not for seeing what the rest of heaven could not. She was faithful, pure, devoted, and for that Castiel had murdered her.

He did what he had to do.

Bobby Singer trusted him enough to let him reach into his body and touch his soul, trusted that it was what he had to do to bring Sam and Dean back, when he couldn’t even trust himself. And he did bring them back, empty-handed but ultimately successful. He was exhausted, psychologically drained, and he took himself away from the humans the moment he could do so without drawing too much attention to himself.

Rachel was dead.

He wondered if any of the other angels knew. He would have to tell them. He would have to make up a story to tell them, how their sister, his faithful lieutenant, died bravely, died a hero.

Nothing safe was left. He had done all of this to defend those he loved; now he had murdered Rachel and was lying to everyone else. None of them would understand, and so he had to protect them from it, from seeing what he had become. Killing Rachel made it abundantly clear – if an angel so devoted to his cause couldn’t accept even a glimpse of what he had done, what he had sacrificed to win this war, no one else could be allowed to see it. He had to protect them above all, even from him.

Even if it meant he had to be alone.

His vessel, Jimmy Novak, had nearly drowned as a child. Jimmy was gone now, in heaven since Lucifer had exploded him with a snap of his fingers on the day of the apocalypse that never came, and Castiel was alone in the vessel. Still he remembered the sensation of falling into deep water, sinking, nothing beneath his feet, nothing to hold onto, no way to claw to the surface.

He felt it now. There was nothing left in him that felt safe or whole, no way to fight the sinking, no surface left to claw his way back to. Rachel had turned on him, and there was no one he could trust. He was alone. No God, no path, not even Dean Winchester. And after he had given up all there was to give, had walked away from everything and everyone else, the king of Hell didn’t want him. No use for an angel whose obedience was imperfect, whose devotion was conditional, whose grace was defective. No use for an angel who couldn’t follow orders.

But then Crowley had known from the start exactly what Castiel was and what he could be; it was Crowley, after all, who had first recognized that he could be persuaded to rebel against heaven. Crowley, whatever his demands and his transgressions, understood Castiel, understood the faultline in him; he understood all of it, and he had taken him anyway.

Before he had even fully formed the thought, the hope, Castiel was in flight.

 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

 

Crowley had finally calmed down enough to focus, and he sat in his room reading one of the books he’d borrowed from IRD about interdimensional events. It was boring, intensely boring, but that was all right, since it was difficult to stay enraged when he was immersed in dullness.

He felt a touch on his knee, light and hesitant, and simultaneously a sigil appeared before his eyes. He blinked and lowered the book. “Castiel?”

The angel was on the floor in front of him, leaning against his knee, silent and subdued. He glanced up at his name, an acknowledgment, but then lowered his eyes again, still wordless. Crowley stared at him, perplexed. For him to appear here was an act of disobedience, technically, but there was nothing defiant in the way he was curled up at Crowley's feet, in his cautious, pleading glance. It threw Crowley completely off balance, and for a strange moment he had no idea how to respond. 

Finally he set the book aside and lifted the angel's chin gently. He let him, perfectly and immediately responsive, and met Crowley's eyes steadily. “Something you'd like to say to me, kitten?”

“No, king.” He spoke barely above a whisper. Crowley watched him, his eyebrows raised, waiting for him to reconsider that answer, but the angel just shook his head. He looked pained, apologetic, but he said nothing more.

After a moment, Crowley relented. He knew surrender when he saw it, even when it came in an unexpected form, and whatever else was happening here, this was clearly a wholehearted surrender. He stroked the angel's cheek. “All right, pet. Later.”

Cas closed his eyes at the touch, a measure of relief, of peace settling into his expression. “Yes, king.” He hesitated, then added, “Thank you, king.”

Crowley laid his hand on Castiel's, resting on his knee, and picked up his book with the other. As he began again to read, he felt Cas settle against him, peaceful, grateful. He felt unexpected warmth at that. Anyway this kind of utter submission, he thought, was well worth cultivating, even if it meant showing his angel a great deal more kindness than he currently deserved. Plenty of time later to make him pay off that debt. He added it to the list. Then he returned to the scholarly drone of interdimensional events. 


	16. Nothing Lasts Forever

“Awake, kitten?”

Cas nodded, lifted his head a little from where it rested against Crowley’s knee. “I don’t sleep, king,” he murmured.

“Oh, me neither.” He stroked the angel’s hair and smiled. Running hell meant there was always more work that could be done – delegation could only accomplish so much, and he preferred to take an active role when he could – but he would take time for this. The angel needed his attention, and he understood the benefits of being the one to put the pieces back together. “Turn and face me.”

Immediately he did, sitting up on his knees. Without saying anything, Crowley leaned forward and began to undress him. When he moved to help, Crowley gently pushed his hands away.

“No, let me.”

He did as he was told, seeming relieved. As Crowley unbuttoned his shirt and then took it off, Cas looked down nervously, and Crowley smiled to see why. The deep red circular mark on his shoulder was exactly the way he’d left it, although it had been days. He traced it with light fingertips, feeling all the little ridges, the points, and Cas watched his face anxiously. Crowley raised an eyebrow, grinned.

“So. This is why you came back, isn’t it, sweetheart?” Cas tilted his head a little, and Crowley elaborated. “Because, even after you defied me, even after I told you to leave, deep down you know you’re still mine. This” – he tapped the mark – “this proves it, love. Isn’t that right?” He looked at Cas, raised his eyebrows, waited for a response. Finally Cas nodded, and Crowley sat back in his chair. “What else?”

“What – ”

“What else would you like to say?” Cas closed his eyes and bowed his head. He wasn’t ready for this yet, Crowley could tell; he had to be pushed, but not so far that he shattered. He sighed, feigning disappointment, but then smiled gently. “Kitten, I only have so much patience.”

Cas nodded. He took a breath. “Thank you. For… for being so kind to me. I know you didn’t… I know my disobedience…” He paused, looked down. Crowley took a sip of scotch and let him think. When the angel spoke again it was careful, composed. “Whatever punishment you think is fitting, I’ll accept it. I don’t… I don’t want lenience, king. I only want to earn your forgiveness.”

“Well. I’ll think about it,” Crowley said, smiling. He touched the angel’s lips, then parted them, not rough but insistent. Cas let him, staying up on his knees, his hands folded and still. He didn’t look at him, just gazed straight ahead. Ever the good soldier. Crowley slipped two fingers into his mouth, and despite a blink of confusion Cas yielded. Crowley smiled, eased them in and out, languidly, until Cas took the hint and started to suck on them. “Don’t worry, pet,” he purred. “I’m sure we’ll find some way you can make it up to me. Several ways, in fact.” After a few moments Crowley withdrew his fingers, patted the angel’s cheek. “Get up.”

“King?” Cas squinted.

“Up. On your feet.” He gestured impatiently. Cas tilted his head and then stood. “Take the rest of that off.” He did, his expression calm and serious. Crowley held out a hand to him, and he took it, tentative, giving him an uncertain glance. He pulled the angel – now naked, and cooperative in his befuddled way - close to him.

“Now.” He touched the angel’s stomach, his sides. “You had something to say before. Last time you came by for a visit. You were rather insistent, as I recall.”

Cas began to shake his head, then stopped. “It’s not… It’s not important, king.”

“Really, kitten.” Crowley let the angel hear his irritation, and he winced at it. “Interesting. Because before, you certainly thought it was important enough to disobey me. Repeatedly.”

“I know,” he said, and looked down.

“Well. Let that be for now.” Crowley pushed Cas aside and got up. “Stay,” he said and pointed at him; the angel fluttered his hands, processing, then folded them and stood still.

Crowley went to the desk and pulled the chair out, this one tall and elegant, dark leather and wood, the straight back and lack of arms giving him plenty of room to work. He moved it out into the open, then went to the cupboard. He took out three objects – he’d chosen them and stored them away one day in a flight of whimsy, specifically for the angel – and he laid them out on the desk beside the chair: a paddle, heavy and wooden, a cane, flexible and lightweight, and a thick leather strap. Then he sat down. The angel was standing where he’d left him. He smiled.

“Come here to me, kitten. And bring my drink.”

Cas moved to him, handed him the glass of scotch. He took it and pointed to the objects.

“You know what these are for, angel?”

He looked at them. His gaze and silence lingered a moment. Then he averted his eyes. “Yes, king. I think so.”

“Good.” Crowley grinned. “Choose one.”

Cas hesitated, squinted at him. Crowley waved him toward them. The angel inspected each, touching them gingerly; he began to lift the strap, then stopped and looked at Crowley for permission. Crowley nodded and Cas picked it up, tested it against his hand. Finally, after examining each intently, he laid them all back down, then stood blinking at them for a moment.

“Angel,” Crowley prodded. “I said choose one.”

“Yes, king,” he murmured. After another moment, he picked up the paddle, held it out to Crowley handle-first.

“Good.” Crowley didn’t take it, just patted his knee, setting his glass on the desk. “Lie across my lap. On your front.” Cas paused, then went to him. He hovered there for a moment, still holding the paddle, uncertain. Crowley gave him a stare. “Kitten,” he said warningly.

Cas swallowed and slowly lowered himself onto Crowley’s knees. He tried to control the position, not to put too much weight on Crowley; Crowley grasped his upper arm and pulled him forward, just enough to put him off balance, so that he was unable to hold himself up. He heard the startled gasp and felt Cas, panicked, try to catch himself and fail. He waited and pressed his hand to the small of his back, reassuring him that he wouldn't fall. It was an awkward positioning for the angel, his arse upturned and exposed and his head down, with the position of Crowley's knees controlling his whole body weight. Practically helpless. He still held the paddle in one hand, his knuckles pressed into the floor. He was spread out over Crowley's lap.

Crowley ran his fingers through the angel's hair, fingertips gentle on his scalp, and felt him soothed by the touch, felt his muscles go slack. He lightly traced the curves of his bared buttocks with an open hand, and the angel shivered, shifting a little into Crowley. His cock was already hard against Crowley's thigh, rubbing against the sleek fabric of his trousers. Crowley smiled.

“Last time you came here, you wanted to say something to me.”

“Yes, king.” Cas's voice rumbled soft against his thigh.

“Do you remember what it was?”

There was a silence, and Crowley felt him take a deep breath. “Yes, king.”

“Say it now.”

“I…” 

Crowley didn't wait long before he repeated himself, lowering his voice, hard and commanding. “Now.” 

“Crowley,” he said, pleading. 

“King,” he corrected immediately, slapping Cas's arse once, not hard but swift and loud, a warning.

“King,” he said, after a second. “I… was afraid…”

He sighed, theatrically annoyed. He felt Castiel flinch at it and smiled, but did not let his voice soften. “Stop, kitten. Take a moment. Plan what you're going to say. Then start again.”

“King, I wanted to say – ”

Another slap, this one harder, deliberate. The angel stopped speaking, his breath halted. 

“Did I say you could stop?”

“No, king.” He spoke in a whisper. 

“Then continue.”

“I wanted to say that when I visited – ”

He struck again, and Cas gasped and then did his best to keep talking.

“ – last time, when you became – ”

Crowley increased the pace, hit harder, angled his hand for more pain. 

“ – you became angry with me, king, because – ”

Cas's next word came out a whimper. He took a few quivering breaths, and Crowley lifted his hand away, let him have the silence.

“ – because Dean Winchester – ”

At the name, Crowley began to rain blows down onto Cas's flesh, hard, brutal, stinging. The angel struggled to continue, made a soft desperate sound, choked out the next few words.

“ – because I – I – ”

Unrelenting, rapid, rhythmic. Cas arched, his hands tightly clenched, his body unable to keep still. He tried to speak, couldn't.

“Please, Crowley,” he managed finally, just barely, almost a sob, sounding just below the cracks of Crowley's hand as it landed.

“King,” Crowley corrected patiently, with a final smack, then explored the hot, swollen skin with his fingers, roughly, knowing it would hurt. Cas had begun at some point to glow, and Crowley could feel the light as he touched him. Cas took a pained breath and Crowley heard a barely-audible keening as the angel tried to continue saying what Crowley had told him to say. He let his hand rest on Cas's back, careful, comforting. “I know, kitten. I know. Stop for now.”

Cas still couldn't say anything, but he relaxed a little, nodded.

“The paddle.” He put his hand down where Cas would be able to see it. “Give it to me.”

Cas placed it in his hand. Crowley could feel him shaking, just a little. He smiled.

“I won't make you keep speaking,” he said, caressing him. “I know you can't. But you're still being punished for your disobedience.”

Cas nodded silently.

“Do you deserve to be punished?”

“Yes, king.”

He smiled. “That's right.” He ran the polished edge of the paddle over the angel's buttocks. It was cool and smooth, and as it touched the angel's skin it soothed him into relaxing for a moment; Crowley grinned wickedly as he lifted it and abruptly brought it down, clapping against that pink arse hard enough that Cas jumped in his lap.  “Best get used to it, kitten, because this is far from your last punishment,” he said, and the paddle fell again. “Got all sorts of plans for how to discipline my rebellious little pet.” He looked him over. “Left hand behind your back.” Cas obeyed, and Crowley gripped his wrist tightly, stabilizing him. “Eight more. Then we'll stop for now.”

He dealt them slowly and deliberately, letting each solid stroke settle in, letting the angel buck and wriggle to his heart's content before settling back down into his lap, pliant and resigned to receive the next one. 

After the final smack, Crowley held him still and secure on his lap until he stopped vibrating, then let his arm go. “Still with me, love?”

No immediate response, but Cas lifted his head a little, took a shaky breath. 

“Answer me.”

Finally, with some difficulty, he replied, “Yes, king.”

“Good.” Crowley helped him down off his lap, onto his knees.

As he was about to remind the angel sternly that this was only the first of several chastisements for his recent sins, Cas half-leaned, half-toppled against his legs, wrapping his arms around them in a mostly-collapsed embrace. He laid his head down fully in Crowley's lap, the gesture wordless but its message perfectly clear. “Oh, kitten,” he said, and petted his hair. “I know. I accept your apology.” Cas nodded, going slack against him with relief. Crowley watched him, exhausted and quivering, the light still radiating from his skin. He thought for a few moments.

Finally he pushed Cas gently away and stood. “Stay there.” 

Crowley looked at the angel as he stayed, his head lowered, his eyes closed peacefully. His hands were folded in his lap; soft radiance shone around him. Crowley wondered idly how long he could stay that way, enveloped in grace, primed for obedience. If all went well with the purgatory deal, he guessed he would have quite a bit of time to explore that.

He went to his armoire and carefully selected one of his silk scarves. It was a dark vivid blue that would be striking against Castiel's skin and set off his eyes, but he had chosen it primarily for the texture; it was shimmeringly soft, so that even he didn't want to stop touching it. He had plenty of sturdier, more unforgiving restraints, but he wanted to see the angel respond to the touch of it. But as he turned, he heard the loud high note of someone summoning him, specifically.

His subordinates all knew better; the Winchesters thought he was dead; very few other humans understood summoning well enough to call specifically for him. Whoever it was, they would pay for the interruption. He growled and turned to Cas.

“Up, angel.” Cas stood and looked at him, a little apprehensive at his anger. He gestured to the bed, softened his tone. “Make yourself comfortable. Rest. Wait for me.” Cas went without hesitation, and as he climbed into bed, wincing a little when his bruised buttocks felt the weight of him settling onto his back, Crowley sighed in aggravation and disappeared.


	17. If the High was Worth the Pain

“Explain to me why I shouldn't skin each and every one of you where you stand.”

The gaggle of urgently whispering call-center demons turned to Crowley with fear in their eyes.

“Sire,” a young demon named Jervis said, finally, stepping forward out of the group. “I'm the one who made the call.”

“And?”

“There's something you need to see, sire. From upstairs.”

“And all of you just… forgot the protocol for bringing earth-side events to my attention?”

“…No, sire.” Jervis gulped and turned to the others for support. Mostly they averted their eyes, although it was clear that they had for the most part agreed to this. Cowards. Another one stepped forward, higher ranking, though Crowley couldn't quite remember his name.

“Sire, this was exceptional. It couldn't wait.” Crowley raised his eyebrows, and the second demon cleared his throat nervously. “Wedding party, in a church. Fifty-six humans. Mutual, cannibalistic slaughter.”

“Sounds sexy.”

“It was Eve, sire. We cleaned it up, but if Trish and Cecily hadn't thought to call in, the Winchesters would have been on it for certain.”

He sighed, partly in irritation, partly in frustration that he couldn't disembowel them all because they were right. “Fine. Tell me more.”

 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

 

Crowley shook Cas’s bare shoulder, and he woke. Before, he’d planned to take the time to fully enjoy the naked, eagerly submissive angel in his bed, but now he needed to speed things up. So instead he just got him dressed, almost businesslike, a little cold. He had tucked the blue silk scarf into his pocket before waking Cas up, though, a little reminder of things to come.

“Come on,” he said tersely when he finished tying the angel's tie for him.

Cas followed, and Crowley could see his eyes clear, his expression change. He balked when he realized where he was being led. “Crowley,” he said nervously.

“Yes?”

“I don’t want…”

Crowley kept walking. “Don’t care.”

“But I’m – ”

Crowley turned to him, raised his voice. “Stop talking and do as you’re told.”

Cas fell silent.

When they got to the end of the hallway, past heavy stone doors and barred openings, Crowley stopped in front of a door painted with sigils. Castiel spoke up timidly.

“Who is it?”

“Ghoul. Very old, very powerful.”

“What information…”

“Eve. No more questions, angel. You know what to do.” Crowley unlocked and opened the heavy cell door, held it open for Cas. “After you.”

Cas stopped in his tracks. The ghoul was chained to the wall; he looked like a young human man, battered and broken, his white, drawn face a map of beatings. “Crowley,” he said reproachfully.

Crowley looked in and sighed. “Yes, my hunters got… a bit overzealous. He was difficult to bring in. If you like, after we’re done with him you can put him out of his misery, kitten.”

Cas looked at the floor, twisting his hands, and then stepped into the narrow cell, reluctantly. Crowley came in and let the door slam behind him with a loud crash. The man jerked awake.

Castiel glanced over his shoulder and met Crowley’s eyes. He turned back to the ghoul and stood there a moment with his head lowered. Then he straightened his shoulders, stepped forward, and, without a word of warning, rammed his entire hand into the man’s throat, light beaming from the place where angelic power intersected with flesh, and twisted. The ghoul didn’t scream because he couldn’t – whatever Castiel was doing to his throat, it seemed to silence him – but he flung his body against the chains, trying vainly to escape, the loud clanking of the iron against stone becoming more and more frantic as Cas pushed his hand deeper and deeper into the monster.

Finally, he let go, and the moment the light went dark, the creature erupted into howls of pain.

“You know why you’re here,” Castiel snarled, and Crowley stepped back, startled, at the savage sound of it. “Tell us about Eve, you filth.”

“I don’t know,” the ghoul sobbed. “I don’t know anything about Eve – ”

Cas grasped something inside the man and pulled – Crowley couldn’t see what it was, only light, and the pitch of the screams frankly defied imagination. With his other hand, the angel grabbed the man’s chin, shook him, forced him to meet his eyes even as he screamed. “You’re lying,” he said, dangerously calm now, his voice low but still audible over the continuing cries. “Don’t lie to me, or you will be punished. Do you understand?” He made a sharp wrenching movement, and there was another burst of shrieking.

“Yes! Yes – ”

Finally,  Cas pulled his hand out of the ghoul’s body and tossed him back into the stones of the wall with a sickening crunching noise. “Good.” Crowley leaned back against the door, watching, a mixture of surprise, fascination, and dread churning at the back of his mind.

“The spells – the spells – ” the ghoul panted, his voice hoarse.

Crowley cleared his throat. “Cut you off from the Eve hivemind. We know. I put them there. Weaknesses?”

At the brief hesitation, Castiel touched the ghoul’s chest lightly, his stomach, like he was inspecting a cut of meat. “Phoenix ash… Not you,” he gasped, looking at Cas, then broke into a horrible, unhinged laugh. “Not the angels.”

Cas cocked his head to the side, staring at the ghoul. Crowley couldn’t see his face, but he had a slightly sick, tantalized feeling that the angel was smiling.

The next screams were deafening.

 

 ~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

 

Castiel kept it together until the cell door closed behind them. When it had, though, he nearly collapsed on the spot. Crowley caught his arm and steadied him. “Oh no, kitten. No passing out on me now.”

“Was it enough?” Cas looked at him pleadingly. “Did you get the information you needed?”

“Shut up, angel.” Cas furrowed his brow, unhappily bewildered. Crowley pushed Cas up against the wall of the corridor, his fingers hooked in the loops of his trousers, pressing his erection against the angel's rear. “Still confused, or are we getting the picture now?” He ground up against him, not waiting for an answer. “My good, pure, righteous Castiel,” he purred into his ear. “Getting remarkably comfortable with torture, for an angel of the Lord, aren't you?”

“You said - you said it was righteous,” he objected, dismayed. “You said it was necessary.”

“Oh, it was necessary to do it,” Crowley said, and then grinned wickedly. “But it wasn't necessary to enjoy it, angel.”

Cas made a soft dissenting sound, but then Crowley was rubbing up against him, his hands slipping down his front to stroke his cock through the layers of clothes, and he stopped trying to say anything. He tore off his tie, bound Castiel's wrists behind him with it, quick but effective. He smiled and held him there a moment, pressed to the wall, until he stayed still.

“Good kitten.”

He stepped back. Cas stayed where he was, after a confirming glance over his shoulder at Crowley. He removed his pocket square, shook it out of its careful creases, and balled it up. “Open your mouth.” Cas squinted and did so. Crowley stuffed the fabric inside, which made him shake his head anxiously for a second, until Crowley’s hand on his shoulder calmed him.

Next he pulled the scarf out of his pocket and touched it lightly to Cas’s cheek; Cas inclined his head curiously to rub his cheek against the fabric. Crowley grinned, amused despite himself at the predictable response. Then he looped it twice over the angel’s mouth, knotted it tightly behind his head, and checked that it was secure.

“Can you speak, angel?”

A muffled sound, and then Cas shook his head. 

“Good.” He turned Cas to face him, unfastened his trousers, looked up into his face. “I have to say, kitten, watching what you did to that ghoul… Hard for me not to slam you up against the wall and take you then and there.” Crowley grinned at the startled dismay in the angel's eyes. “All that power,” he whispered into his ear. He slipped his hand, slow and teasing, inside Cas's boxers, pulled him out. “Watching you play ruthless and threatening, watching you tear him apart.” Cas closed his eyes, shuddered. Crowley began to stroke his cock, kissing his neck. “And all along, knowing what you really are, knowing you're mine. Knowing even with all that power, I could have you pinned to the floor, begging for mercy, begging me to use you.” His voice was a growl now. Cas was squirming, his cock hard, his face hot. Crowley opened his own trousers, released his erection - which had been unabated since about halfway through the session in the cell - and pushed his hips up against the angel's. “You're mine, pet.” He opened Cas's shirt, kissed his chest, his shoulder, the mark, feeling the way he breathed, the way he moved to meet the kisses. He bit his neck, not too hard, but enough to hurt, while he rubbed his cock against the angel's, between their bodies.

 “Feeling guilty, feeling ashamed, is a waste of time.” He chuckled at the angel's look of surprise and confusion. Then he wrapped his hand around both of their cocks, as best he could, and heard Cas moan softly, muffled by the gag. He stroked them both, their bodies moving against each other. Cas was struggling against the tie, his eyes fluttering closed. Crowley could see the light of him on the walls of the corridor. With the other hand he reached around the angel's body and grasped his arse through his trousers. He squeezed a little, and the angel's gasp of pain told Crowley it was still tender from the paddle. He pushed him back against the wall. He moved his hand faster and faster, whispering into his angel's ear. “You're mine, kitten. You're not a pure, righteous warrior of God. Not anymore. You're mine. No use feeling guilty about it. You did just what I told you to, and you did it perfectly. You don't get punished for doing as you're told.” Cas opened his eyes for a moment, frantic and uncertain, and Crowley met them steadily. A moment later he gasped with pleasure, thrusting up against the angel as he twisted and writhed. He felt himself getting close, felt Cas, their flesh hot where they were rubbing against each other, slippery with pre-come. He thought of the vermin chained to the wall, Cas's voice like thunder as the thing begged for death, Cas's threats and the way his angelic power had seemed to fill up the entire room, and of Cas bared on his lap and in his bed, Cas humbled and asking - so politely - for a chance at forgiveness, Cas letting himself be bound and gagged in an unfamiliar hallway without even a question. He looked at the angel's face, his expression soft and open with pleasure, and smiled.

When they came, both of them, the space between their bodies was electricity and fire and even as he was in it himself, Crowley pressed Castiel hard into the wall and held him there. 

Finally, when they were both standing, breathing, shaking and leaning against the wall, Crowley took a step back. “Get yourself cleaned up, sweetheart. Then you need to - are you listening to me?” 

Cas looked down at him, his eyes glazed and unfocused and soft. He nodded, but barely.

“After you are presentable, kitten, you are going to go to those obnoxious humans you like so much, and you are going to find out what they know about Eve's location. Do you understand?”

Cas nodded, looking unhappy enough about it that Crowley believed he probably did understand.

“Good. Turn around.” He untied the angel's wrists, unknotted the gag, let the angel remove the square of fabric from his mouth. Cas just stood there, disheveled and glowing and still deep enough into his reverie that he couldn't speak, and Crowley felt suddenly the need to kiss him. When he had, finally, he pulled himself away and left to change.


	18. ashes in my wake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter, as with a few that follow, interweaves tightly with the on-screen events of canon, here specifically episode 19, Mommy Dearest. As such, some of the lines and scenes will be familiar to you. I don't alter them directly, but Cas's perspective and the added context of Crowley's backstage machinations cast them in a different light.

As Crowley strode away down the narrow corridor and disappeared to some other part of hell, Castiel leaned against the smooth stone of the wall and then sat down on the floor. He wrapped his coat snugly around himself, wishing Crowley hadn’t taken the scarf with him. It was silent now; the spells and warding Crowley was using dampened the psychic output from the prisoners outside of the cells, so although he knew they were, Castiel couldn’t hear them screaming.

He closed his eyes.

Mikhail – named for Castiel’s brother, although he wouldn’t know or care about that connection, much as it tore at Castiel’s heart – was still alive in the cell. What Castiel had done to him was worse than killing him, enough that he begged for death long before it was over, enough that he was metaphysically unrecognizable, utterly shattered, by the time they’d left him.

Crowley had wanted him to do it, and so he had. It was that simple. He hadn’t asked questions, had barely hesitated. It was necessary. He knew that from the way Crowley had snapped at him. But he hadn’t asked why. He hadn’t made sure.

Mikhail was a ghoul, an abomination. A killer. There was no reason to feel for him. There was no reason for Castiel, sitting there on the floor outside his cell, to feel in the pit of his stomach that he had transgressed some essential boundary, that he had gone beyond doing what had to be done, crossed into something entirely else.

Crowley had taken so much delight in it, so much satisfaction in what he did afterward. And instead of the purity he usually accessed in acts of devotion, the clarity he usually felt afterward, Castiel felt fractured, unclean, tainted by what had happened, by the pleasure of it.

When he felt like he could, he rose and went to Crowley’s room to compose himself. Crowley was already gone, and after he was presentable, Castiel sat on the bed for a few minutes, relieved by the solitude, comforted by the silent traces of Crowley’s personality that surrounded him. He felt more at peace here, and he tried not to think too deeply about the implications of that. He knew the moment was illicit, that the circumstances demanded haste, but if he faced Dean still feeling polluted with Mikhail’s flayed soul on his hands like blood, still tender from Crowley’s touch and ringing with his voice, he would shatter somehow, confess the whole thing, put them all at risk. He needed to show them Castiel, angel of the Lord, unsullied and whole. He needed to be able to pretend that was still what he was.

 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

 

As Castiel landed in Bobby Singer’s house, the first thing he heard was the familiar sound of Dean complaining. “Why’s it always gotta be me that makes the call, huh? It’s not like Cas lives in my ass. Dude’s busy.” Castiel appeared behind him and Dean whirled. “Cas, get out of my ass!”

Castiel frowned. “I was never in your…” Dean’s eyes met his and he stopped midsentence, suddenly very uncomfortable with this particular, oddly carnal human idiom. He changed the subject quickly. “Have you made any progress in locating Eve?”

“Well, we were gonna ask you about that,” Bobby replied.

“No. I’ve looked, but she’s hidden from me. She’s hidden from all angels.”

“Awesome,” Dean said sarcastically.

Castiel considered. If the Winchesters had made no progress, there was nothing urgent to tell Crowley. But Mikhail had told them secrets, told them about mystery cults among the monsters, guarding semidivine primitive magics that could bind the Mother, and although Crowley had not had the patience to explain it outright, Castiel guessed that this meant it was time to find her.

They were still talking. “Maybe,” Dean said.

“So we can find one,” said Sam.

They continued back and forth for a few minutes, their conversation incomprehensible to Castiel – consisting mostly of names and towns – until finally they settled on Lenore, a vampire, in Red Lodge, Montana.

“It’s about a day’s drive, so we’d better get a move on.”

“If she’s even still there. After all that crap with Gordon, I wouldn’t be surprised if she and her nest pulled up stakes.”

“Either way Red Lodge is the only clue we’ve got, so – ”

“I’ll find her,” Castiel interrupted. “I can travel much faster than you.”

“You sure, Cas? We know you’ve got a lot on your plate,” Sam replied hesitantly.

“Yes. It’s urgent that we find and eliminate Eve as soon as possible.”

“All right, man. If you’re sure. But you call us if you run into any trouble, okay?”

Castiel tried his best to smile. His stomach twisted. They were actually worried about him. “Of course.”

He disappeared.

 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~ 

 

Crowley was deeply engaged in conversation with some kind of elemental vengeance deity who had for some reason assumed the shape of a fluttery, excitable woman in brightly colored clothing. “…but you wouldn’t even _have_ to, I would think, if you were able to obtain a sufficient quantity of blood, as long as the blood was from a direct descendant – although really, at the concentrations we’re talking about here, the earlier the better – keeping in mind of course that I don’t mean earlier as in _time_ , I mean earlier as in _priority_ – ”

“Castiel,” Crowley said, interrupting her, and she jumped and almost fell out of her chair.

“Castiel!” She moved as though to shake his hand, but stopped halfway and flapped her arms like a startled bird. “The angel! It’s an honor – well – I’m happy to finally meet you.”

Castiel blinked in surprise and looked at Crowley. He shrugged. “Castiel, this is Tisiphone, one of the three heads of the research division. Tiff, if you’ll excuse us.” He took Castiel’s arm and dragged him off quickly into a quiet nook out of sight, before he or Tisiphone could say anything further.

“Well?”

“The Winchesters haven’t located Eve so far, but they’ve asked me to bring a vampire who will help them find her.”

“A vampire?”

“A friendly vampire, from what I understand. I could kill her. Tell them she couldn’t be found. If you want me to keep them off the trail a few days longer.”

“No, no. I’ve got what I need. You get them their vampire, ducky, play the helpful sidekick. We both know how much you like to be of service.”

“Crowley.”

“Oh, come on. _You’re_ giving _me_ the angelic voice of prudish disapproval? You really that immune to irony, pet, or are you just angling for another round with the paddle?” Crowley grinned. He seemed to be in a remarkably good humor.

Castiel didn’t reply to the teasing question, but he did smile. “After I bring them the vampire, I assume you’d like to know whatever I learn about Eve’s location.”

“Once you’ve reported back to me, we’ll decide the rest.”

 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

 

“You actually believe you can stop her?” Lenore sounded sad.

“Just tell us where she is.”

She shook her head. “Grants Pass, Oregon.” She looked off to the side, hearing something. “And now she knows you’re coming.”

“Well, let's go see,” Bobby said.

“Hold on. I didn't tell you this out of the goodness of my heart. I need something.”

“What?” Sam was suddenly suspicious.

“Kill me,” Lenore said. It was the most hopeful she had sounded since she began to speak. Castiel felt a pull inside him, as though the stomach of his vessel were being jerked upward sharply. _Kill me._ For a moment he could hear nothing else. Her suffering screamed through him, followed by guilt, fresh and seething. He couldn’t tell hers apart from his own. He had made Mikhail beg for death. He had denied him even that mercy.

“You're not like the rest of them,” Sam insisted.

“I'm exactly like them,” Lenore said, moving toward Sam, pain radiating off her like a beacon. It drew Castiel toward her, the pull like a reflex, like a child pulling his hand from a hot stove. She was terrified, but not of them. She was terrified of what she had done, could do. Castiel hated her, for a moment. He stepped forward. “I fed. I couldn't help it. The girl couldn't have been more than 16, Sam. I'll do it again. I can't stop. Not anymore. You have to. Please.”

Castiel touched the vampire, let his power burn her and all her noisy pain and guilt away in a blaze of light. She crumbled to ash.

“We needed to move this along,” he said, by way of explanation. The boys and Bobby were staring at him like he had done something horrifying. He looked away.

“All right,” Dean said after an awkward silence. “Guess we’d better finish packing and get a move on.”

“Yes. I also have a final errand to run.” Crowley had told him that when lying it was best to remain vague, and that inexperienced liars often gave too many details in an effort to sound more credible. “Then we go and eliminate Eve.”

He looked at their faces. They weren't giving him looks of surprise or incredulity as far as he could tell, and that was good. He transported himself to Crowley. 

Crowley was in the lab reading a spellbook while pacing. He stopped when Castiel arrived. “Back already, angel?”

“Eve is in Grants Pass, Oregon.” 

“Splendid.” He closed the book with a snap.

“What's the plan?” 

Crowley looked at him as though he were being very dense. “Go to Grants Pass, Oregon.”

“You and I?”

“You and the Bobbsey Twins. I have a ritual to prepare.”

“But - ”

“I'll send in some of my black-eyed boys to keep an eye on things, see if they can come up with a specific location. But you and the Winchesters are plan A. Try to find her. Just make sure they don't actually manage to kill her.”

Castiel hesitated. When he finally decided to speak it was reluctant and worried. “Crowley, I don’t think I understand this plan.”

“Don’t worry about it, kitten.” The condescension no longer stung; he knew Crowley’s malice well enough to recognize its absence. “You just play your part. Let me know when you’ve tracked her down and I’ll take care of the rest.”

 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

 

As Bobby and Sheriff Roberts sparred in the interrogation room, Castiel looked around the darkened station for some way to contact Crowley. For the first time he realized it would have been prudent to exchange telephone numbers. 

A small crystal bowl filled with yellow-orange disk-shaped candies sat on a desk near the entrance. He picked it up and dumped out the candies, slipped the bowl into his coat, and went back to the interrogation room.

“You know, she can see you right now. And you’re just making her mad.”

“Then tell the bitch to come get me.”

“I need five minutes alone with him,” Castiel said.

“What for? Cas, your batteries are dead!”

“Give me five minutes,” he insisted.

“All right, fine,” Bobby said.

The sheriff stared at him, arrogant, smiling. Castiel looked back, cold and steady. He picked up the silver knife. When Bobby had left the room and could no longer see him, Castiel took a step forward, pulled out the bowl, and slit the shifter’s throat in one swift movement.

“ _Inferni clamavi ad te regem sermones meos_ ,” Castiel whispered to the blood swirling in the candy bowl, wincing at the broken Latin of the incantation. He hoped desperately that this would work.

“Cas. A blood call, really?” Castiel was surprised that he could hear Crowley’s amusement in this medium.

“My powers are blocked more thoroughly than I expected. This is the only way I could get through. Have your - have you learned the address?”

“25 Buckley Street. Why, aren’t Moose and Squirrel - ”

“They’re busy.”

“Too busy to track the mother of all monsters a few bloody blocks?”

“There were children. Orphaned. They became... distracted.”

Crowley was laughing. It did something very unsettling to the blood when he laughed. Castiel wished he wouldn’t.

“Of course. Perfect.”

“You could go and trap her now.”

“No, no, angel. Too risky. We'll wait until you and the Babysitters' Club get in, restore you to full power, and you can zap Mommy Monster here to me. You'll look like the big hero, I'll have the second ritual ready and safe from any interference. Nice and neat.”

The plan sounded reasonable enough, but something about Crowley's smooth, ready explanation tugged at the edge of Castiel's mind. He tried to put it aside. “All right.”

Crowley ended the call and the blood dried up instantaneously. Castiel wondered if it always did that, or if the shapeshifter's blood had unusual properties which caused the effect, but he couldn't take the time to investigate it. He decapitated the shifter, finishing it off; somehow it managed to scream, and Castiel wished he had been able to smite the thing. That was less painful and also less noisy.

“Eve’s at 25 Buckley Street,” he reported to Bobby as he left the room, wiping the blood from his hands with a rough white washcloth. “You can call Sam and Dean.”

Now all there was left to do was wait.

 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

 

“Really, Cas? This is getting ridiculous. How many times am I going to have to clean up your messes?”

Castiel turned, his anger simmering. Crowley stood among the corpses, looking disconcertingly smug.

“You told her about the phoenix ash.” Castiel’s tone was carefully measured.

“Her? No.”

“You told someone.”

“I might have let it slip in the course of an interrogation.” Crowley grinned. “Oops.”

“Why?” Castiel demanded.

“Insurance policy, love. Couldn’t trust you to keep your pets on a short enough leash, had to make sure they didn’t kill her. Lot of good that did us.”

Castiel narrowed his eyes, tilted his head. “You’re lying.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re lying to me, Crowley.”

“Best watch your tone, pet.”

“You told me you’d restore my powers so I could send her to you. You didn’t. You were never going to.”

“Oh, I was.”

“But not before...”

Crowley sighed in annoyance and shrugged. “Fine, angel. You figured me out. All that research was just for the hell of it. The real plan was for you to let the Winchesters kill Eve. Excellent work.”

“Please don't lie to me. You were going to let Eve kill the Winchesters. Then come get her, say it was an accident.”

After a moment, Crowley shrugged. “And?”

Castiel shook his head, fury welling up in his chest. He turned away from Crowley.

“Don't turn your back on me, kitten,” Crowley warned, sounding suddenly angry.

Castiel faced him squarely and stared him down. “Or what?”

They stared at each other for a beat. Then both lunged at the same moment, Crowley barely snagging Cas’s sleeve, the angel launching himself forcefully enough to the side that Crowley almost lost his footing. Instead he planted himself, caught hold of Cas’s arm, and let the centrifugal force swing the angel toward the counter, where he hit a stool and tumbled over it, pulling Crowley down with him. They both went sprawling.

Before Crowley could disentangle himself from the stool they had knocked over, Cas was scrambling to his feet. But he tripped over the leg of one of the corpses that littered the floor, giving Crowley just enough time to gather himself before the angel could regain his footing.

He dove at Cas. They hit the ground again and rolled, grappling.

Crowley wrestled him down, one knee planted in his chest, his whole weight pinning him to the floor. “Oh, kitten.” He tapped his thumb against Cas’s cheek, petted his hair a little. “You really shouldn’t provoke me, you know. You have any idea how much I’d enjoy crushing every little spark of defiance out of you?”

Cas closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, they were hard and cold with determination. “I don’t want to hurt you, Crowley.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows. “You really don’t.”

Castiel looked up at Crowley. He was smiling, just a little, the way he did when he saw a vulnerability and was preparing to strike at it. Castiel's anger boiled up. “You tried to _kill_ Sam and Dean.” 

“You screwed up our best shot at Purgatory. Call it square.”

“Let me up, Crowley.”

“Or what?” Crowley mocked. Castiel slipped a little, looked away.

“Please, just... Crowley, I don't want to fight. Please let me up.”

“I'll let you up when I bloody well please. What are you going to do, smite me?”

Castiel closed his eyes, then - all at once - threw Crowley off him, hard enough that he flew into one of the tables. Then he was on his feet, and Crowley was looking at him with incredulous rage. He took a step toward him, and Crowley stepped back, his eyes narrowed. “So much for redeeming yourself. Kitten.”

At that, Castiel froze, felt as though something in his chest were being torn up the middle. “Crowley, I...” He stopped, pulled toward too many courses of action simultaneously.

Crowley gave him a level, appraising stare, then turned away and spoke in a cold clipped tone. “Get the corpse. Take it down to my lab. Tell the guards no one but me is to enter that room. Go to my rooms and wait.”

Castiel hesitated. 

“And don't you dare contact the Winchesters. They've done enough damage.”  

Castiel went to Eve's body and picked it up. This, at least, he could do; this at least made sense. He disappeared to hell.


	19. if thine is the glory

The mountain wind falling on the oak trees rattled and whispered through the brown brittle leaves, and Castiel lifted his head, his eyes closed, and listened. It was good here. He could stay here until Raphael found him, could breathe in the light and the living silence. He could give it up, let the whole thing go, let his mind – such as it was – be absorbed into the ordered wild, the unruly perfection of the living world, until it was over. A doe stepped carefully through the high grass, her coat grown in thick for the winter, her eyes bright and darting. She was pregnant, her belly low and plump with twin daughters, and there was something ferocious in her alert timidity.  

Castiel could feel an icy mist in the air that would soon become frost, and he let himself sink into the sensation of each particle as it touched him.

Crowley’s orders had been very clear. Yet here he was, on earth, in some valley in the sun. It wasn’t that he had chosen, consciously, to stop following orders; he had simply fled. And whenever he let his focus drift off from the immediacy of sights and smells and touch, the need to go back grew almost unbearable, a sort of frantic distress, like a caged bird dashing itself against the bars in its desperation to escape.

Crowley had tried to kill Sam and Dean. He tried to kill the humans Castiel was doing all of this to protect. Only Dean’s talent for aggravation and the quickness of Eve’s temper had saved their lives. Castiel had been helpless, unable to defend them, because he had relied on Crowley’s word and Crowley could not be trusted. King of hell, he would have said, with his eyebrows raised, with a smile, as though that explained everything. Castiel supposed it did.

But now he was angry again, and Castiel felt his anger like a wound. The price of appeasing him would be high, especially when he hadn’t even been forgiven for his last transgression yet. He knew he should be reluctant to pay it, to hand as much power to the king of hell as it would take to satisfy him, but in truth, he recoiled at the idea of leaving it unpaid, of failing to placate Crowley. His grace was like an ache he couldn’t localize, a gnawing within him, and the thought of being without Crowley – of belonging to no one – turned that ache to agony. But Crowley was dangerous. He couldn’t be trusted. Whatever he said, the king of hell served his own interests first, and the more power he had, the more determined he became to eliminate all threats to it. Sam and Dean were first on his list, and to protect them Castiel had to have enough independence, enough power of his own to truly threaten Crowley, enough that Crowley knew it.

As through a dissipating fog, he could see the outlines of what he needed to do. It made him sick, the enormity of it; it was barely thinkable, but it was the only path that would let him protect Sam and Dean. He knew how easily he could be shaken from it, knew how much it would take from him. But Crowley could not be allowed to attain the power he sought, and Castiel had to win his war against Raphael, and there was only one solution he could see.

He sat there in the quiet and the chill, dreading what came next.

 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

 

When Castiel landed in hell, Crowley was inaccessible, undoubtedly in one of the parts of hell that he had warded against angels. He went to Crowley’s room; that at least hadn’t been angel-proofed, and it stung Castiel a little to realize he was relieved by that. He hung up his overcoat, undressed, and lay down in the bed, pulling the blankets around him.

When Crowley arrived a few minutes later he ignored Castiel at first, but on purpose, as though he were making a point of not seeing him. He took off his coat and poured himself a drink. Castiel sat up. He said nothing, just waited, knowing it would only irritate Crowley to interrupt him before he was ready.

Finally he turned. His expression was coldly neutral, and Castiel looked away. “Angel.”

“Yes?”

“You’re in my bed.”

“I am.”

“Then I take it you’re not here to whine on behalf of your pets.”

“No. If I want to talk about the Winchesters, I’ll come back during regular business hours.”

Crowley chuckled at that, and Castiel risked a smile at him. He didn’t return it, turned away to shuffle through some papers on his desk. There was a silence. “Why are you here?”

Castiel frowned. Surely Crowley knew why he was here, so the question had to be asking something else. “I…”

Crowley turned. “Angel, I asked you a simple question.” His tone was dangerous, and Castiel glanced at his face, found his eyes hard and unsympathetic.

“I’m here because you told me to come.”

“I didn’t tell you to come eight hours late. And so I ask again, why are you here?”

“I’m here,” Castiel said, then stopped. He considered his answer. Crowley watched him. He tried to keep his body still, small, respectful under the unforgiving stare, but he felt unsolid, out of focus. The longing, the need in him when he looked at Crowley felt now like betrayal, betrayal of Dean Winchester, of heaven, of the path he had found laid out before him. But that path was betrayal too. Either way, he told himself, this part was the same. He needed to be forgiven, to persuade Crowley of his repentance, his loyalty, to act worthy of forgiveness. Even if he wasn’t. “Your majesty,” he began again, quietly, “I’m here to atone for my behavior and accept any punishment you choose to give me.”

“Again,” Crowley snapped, his voice loaded with scorn. “You’re here to atone for your behavior… again. Because you defied me. Again.”

Castiel didn’t reply, just closed his eyes and endured the sharp wrenching of shame in his chest, let it reverberate through him. It was worse this time – Crowley was holding even his anger and disapproval closed off and at a distance, and it made every moment feel precarious, like ice about to give way underfoot.

When he opened his eyes again, Crowley was staring at him intently, thoughtfully, leaning back against the desk. He looked away quickly, his cheeks still flushed hot from Crowley’s dissatisfaction. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Crowley stand up, and then – quickly, almost so quickly that even Castiel couldn’t anticipate him – move from the desk to the bed, the silver flash of an angel blade in his hand, then at Castiel’s throat, the point a hair’s breadth from the skin. “You used your angel powers to resist me. Again. You don’t deserve forgiveness.”

“I know, King.”

“In fact, if it weren’t for the Purgatory deal, I’d seriously consider cutting your throat.”

Castiel glanced up, saying nothing, a pained little shudder of dread in his stomach. Crowley had made his eyes go red, not losing control as he had before, but intentionally, knowing the effect it would cause in him. He ached inwardly, not with guilt at what was undoubtedly an irreparable sin, but with distress and shame at having displeased Crowley this much.

“Afraid, kitten?” the demon asked softly, resting the point of the blade against Castiel’s throat, drawing it downward slowly and so lightly that it made him shiver.

“Yes, king.” Castiel looked up into his eyes, glowing red as they were, trusting that Crowley would respond better to open vulnerability than to any concealment.

“Good.” Crowley smiled, blinking his eyes back to their usual gray-green, and laid a hand against Castiel’s chest to press him backward, down, against the pillows. Castiel yielded immediately to the pressure, still watching his eyes steadily, trusting, despite the way his stomach twisted at the touch of the blade. As he did, Crowley shifted himself, straddling him at the waist, pinning each wrist under his knees. “Now, I can gag you again or you can be a good little pet and keep quiet for me. Your choice.”

Castiel was starting to feel disoriented, but he tried to answer. “I… I.” He wondered what Crowley planned to do, how strong he would have to be to endure it in silence; he wondered if not using the gag was a test. He also wondered why his flesh responded with excitement to Crowley’s touch even when it came with a knife at his throat. He tried to think. Did he want to be gagged again or could he exercise restraint? He frowned, trying to form words from the diffuse sea of his thoughts.

“Already, angel?” Castiel winced. Crowley was amused, but his amusement didn’t feel warm or affectionate. He tapped Castiel’s lips with the blade, lightly. “Gag. Yes or no?”

He hesitated and then answered decisively. “No, king.”

Crowley nodded. He did not seem impressed by the answer, but he also didn’t seem further angered by it, which was a relief. He rested the blade against Castiel’s closed lips. “Good. As long as you stay quiet.” Castiel was comforted by the pressure, the weight of him, but not by the look on his face, not by the fact that he hadn’t put down the blade. “If you fight me, angel, if your eyes start burning for so much as an instant, we’re done. Understand?”

“Yes, king.” He closed his eyes.

“Good.” With a sharp flick the angel blade broke the skin of his chest, almost startling a cry out of Castiel; with effort he managed not to do more than gasp. Though the wound was shallow, a quick clean score down the length of his sternum, the properties of the blade elicited nearly unbearable pain and the light of his grace spilled out faster than blood. He twisted hard underneath Crowley, his muscles involuntarily trying to escape; when he opened his eyes again Crowley was looking at him with an intense, hungry interest that made him feel markedly uncomfortable, which was impressive given the situation.

As Castiel watched, Crowley shifted his grip on the blade and began to cut again, still taking care to keep the wounds superficial, but now slower, more deliberate, as though he were doing calligraphy. Castiel gritted his teeth and tried to keep his body from tensing or thrashing, to keep his breathing slow and even.

“With me, kitten?” Crowley asked, less checking in than taunting. Castiel was sure Crowley knew how much of his mental energy was invested in staying silent, knew how hard it would be for him to speak and not to cry out.

“Yes, king,” he breathed, bringing himself back into focus enough to form the words, his hands – still pinned down – clenching into fists with the effort. He made no further sound.

Crowley didn’t reply; he just put the blade aside. He looked at the incisions – a complex sigil with a peculiar trident woven into its intricate curves, stark red against Castiel’s pallor – and then traced them with his fingertips, not particularly gently. A fiery glow trailed after his touch like a comet’s tail, sealing the wounds, leaving visible and raised seams in the flesh.

Castiel watched him, the pain feeling increasingly fuzzy and distant. By the time Crowley had finished he felt as though he were floating, anchored only by Crowley’s weight and his touch. He tried to think of the plan, to bring himself back to the path he had mapped out beforehand, but it was like trying to read words etched on the sun – the light and flood of his mind was totalizing and impenetrable. He knew only the need, the consuming gravitational pull of it, the headlong irresistible impulse toward obedience at all costs, and he let go, let Crowley’s will – almost a perceptible entity in itself – become his axis mundi, his guiding star. He would not cry out, would not so much as whimper in pain, because Crowley willed his silence; he would accept any torment Crowley cared to inflict, because his will was all that mattered.

“There. Finished.” There was something mocking and terrible in his voice, and Castiel flinched. “Now you can fight me all you want, kitten.” He opened his mouth to reply, but Crowley leaned down and covered it firmly. “Careful,” he whispered. “Careful what you say next. Think hard about it. You really don’t want to make this worse.”

Castiel frowned, anxious, and he spoke the moment Crowley released him. “I don’t want to fight you, my king. I never did.”

“And yet.”

Castiel began to reply, but he gestured dismissively.

“Save it, angel. Not interested.”

He climbed off Castiel and got up. Castiel lay still where he was, looking down at his chest, at the symbols Crowley had carved into his body. A beautiful calm had settled over him, and when he finally looked back up the sight of Crowley filled him with peace. Hesitant, watching for any sign of disapproval, he reached for Crowley’s hand and drew it to his lips, reverent, fervent.

“Oh, kitten,” Crowley said with a quirk of his lips, “you’re so damaged.” Castiel didn’t understand that response, but it didn’t matter very much to him because Crowley seemed happier, or at least less immediately angry. That was everything. He kissed his hand a final time softly and let it go.

The moment he did, Crowley slapped his face. It stunned and stung, and he touched his hand to his cheek gingerly. “As charming as I find that twisted angel psyche, you don’t have permission to touch me. Get up.”

Still reeling inwardly, Castiel got to his feet as quickly as he could, as Crowley stepped back, making room for him. The slow wicked smile playing on his lips sent a shiver through Castiel’s body, made his face feel flushed and his mouth go dry. He averted his eyes. “There’s my good soldier,” Crowley said, low and taunting. “Commander of heaven’s armies, a couple of weeks away from being the new God, and here you stand, helpless as – well, a kitten.”

At Castiel’s squint of suspicious confusion he laughed and placed his hand on Castiel’s shoulder, deceptively gentle. “You didn’t think those cuffs you stole were the only way I could stop you fighting me, did you, pet? Well, you lot have never been particularly imaginative.”

Castiel tilted his head; when he tried, he could still feel the power of heaven coursing through him, a quiet humming that surrounded his vessel, not the least diminished by the symbols Crowley had drawn. He tried to keep his puzzled incredulity to himself but his expression quickly gave him away, and Crowley chuckled. The sound was oddly brittle, and with a sinking feeling Castiel realized that although he was acting calmer, Crowley was still incandescent with rage.

“Oh, you’re not totally impotent, love. What’d be the point of that? You’re still the warrior of heaven, still every inch the formidable angel you’ve always been. Except… well.” He lifted his hand and lowered it slowly, and Castiel felt an enormous invisible weight – physical, not metaphorical – begin to drag him downward, first to his knees, then to the floor, and then vanish as quickly as it had arrived. “Except that you’re mine. So long as you have that sigil on your chest, all that power is useless against me. Against me, you’re not a warrior, you’re not an angel - you’re nothing.” 

Castiel stayed where he was, looking at his hands, hazy and out of focus, as he tried to ground himself by pressing them into the floor. Crowley was not safe when he was like this, he thought distantly, and again he had trusted him with unchecked power. But it was done now, and he had no other choice but to see it through.

When he had steeled himself, he looked up at Crowley, who must have seen the dismay in his face as an accusation because he became defensive immediately. “Please,” he snapped. “After that stunt you pulled back in the diner, you thought I’d trust you to behave yourself? No. Consider this an insurance policy.”

“Yes, king,” Castiel murmured, frowning.

Crowley stalked off and then returned, stepping over Castiel, and without a word he tied a piece of cloth – maybe one of his handkerchiefs – over Castiel’s eyes. A moment later, Castiel felt a sudden searing pain sizzle across his rear, so swift and intense that he almost jumped in shock. It was like being scalded with holy oil, a stinging stripe, immediately followed by another criss-crossing it, this one almost wringing a cry from him, one he was barely able to suppress. “Good, kitten, not a sound without permission.”

The next one was in almost exactly the same position as the first, lacerating the wounded flesh, and Castiel began to shake. After the next, Castiel was barely able to hold himself up, and Crowley did not wait before landing another, a hissing crack across his thighs that jerked him forward. He struggled to stay up, breathing hard, and Crowley stepped away from him. Castiel could hear movement, but saw only darkness, and when Crowley took his arm and pulled him forward he almost lost his balance. Crowley guided his hand to his knee, and Castiel felt the cloth, felt that he was sitting in a chair facing him. “Come on,” Crowley said, now impatient. “Come to me, angel.”

He moved forward to Crowley. Crowley pulled his hand to his belt. “You know what to do.” He unfastened Crowley’s pants, took him into his mouth gently, and Crowley – already hard – responded with a low groan and a hand tightening in his hair. “Yes, pet. That’s right. Show me how sorry you are.”

He took him as deep as he could, his tongue running carefully over the sensitive flesh, and tightened his hand around the remaining length, doing his best to keep a steady rhythm. He felt Crowley’s arousal as he moved his head up and down, a little faster, a little tighter, using his tongue the way he had been instructed to. Crowley pushed his head down, now thrusting himself deep into his mouth. His body responded with a shiver of pleasure, of heat. The head bumped the back of his throat, almost more than he could bear, and that was better, that made him moan softly, to a breathless chuckle from Crowley.

When Crowley reached his climax, he instinctively pulled away, but Crowley grasped his hair and held him down, pumping into his throat, his orgasm tasting of salt and sulfur. “Don’t fight,” he breathed. “Swallow it like a good whore.” Although his face flushed at being called a whore, again, by Crowley, he obeyed.

After a moment, Crowley untied the blindfold and ran light fingers through his hair. A warm glow of happiness washed over him at the gentle touch, but an icy chill immediately doused it when he saw Crowley’s expression. He had not been forgiven, not even close. “Forget your place again, kitten, I’ll make you kill the Winchesters yourself. And you’ll be on your knees for me before their bodies are cold. Understand?”

Castiel couldn’t breathe for a moment, but he finally forced himself to reply. “Yes, king.” 

 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

 

When Crowley fell asleep, Castiel renewed his vessel, cleaned the room, and vanished to a park to be alone.

He was overcome with guilt and shame he could neither shake nor reason with. He had done what he needed to do, had gotten Crowley to believe in his repentant submission, and so he had stayed on the path, even though he had lost sight of it for a moment. He was doing what had to be done. He told himself that losing control had been a means to achieving that end.

It was not a sin to betray the king of hell. His irrational devotion, his longing to give up this plan and be what he felt he was meant to be, what Crowley had told him time and again he was meant to be – those were sins. If he allowed this to continue, the king of hell would ultimately rule everything, including heaven and earth. Every part of God’s creation would become subject to his rage, his cruelty, his malice. And yet Castiel hesitated.

He looked upward, a terrible feeling of emptiness and despair threatening to consume him. “Father,” he said, quietly, hopelessly, watching the breath steam and swirl in the cold air, “Father, I am lost. Please, I… I need Your guidance. I’m… I can’t do this on my own. I’ve tried so hard to be a faithful son, to act according to Your will, to love and protect the humans above all else. And I’m afraid I’ve lost my way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [CN: Abusive behavior, lack of pre-negotiation/informed consent involving significant power exchange, cutting/knifeplay, bodily fluids, death threats, canon-typical slurs.]


	20. at the shrine of your lies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, at season 6, episode 20. The font of all this suffering! In my effort to do better than giving you a transcript of the episode, I ended up with a divided structure; the rest of the events of 6x20 will be in the next chapter.

Crowley paced in his lab, where the body of Eve, the mother of all monsters, was laid out on an autopsy table. He had work to do, but he was preoccupied. Castiel was taking up mental energy he couldn’t afford to spare.

Right now, he was frightened of Crowley, almost shattered, which was a phase Crowley would gladly prolong if he could. Castiel’s sheer angelic power made his brokenness, his desperation for approval, all the more appealing, and the occasional pangs of sentiment Crowley felt for his angel were easily extinguished by his stubborn refusal to deal reasonably with the Winchesters.

But Crowley knew better than to leave his business relationships in shambles, especially at such a crucial time. Even if it was entirely his inept, insolent partner’s own fault. His control over the angel was hardly reliable in this state, and much as it annoyed him to soothe Cas’s feelings when Cas was the one being unreasonable, he knew how to cement that control. Besides, coddling his angel for a few hours, giving him some peace, wasn’t exactly a tough sell. Castiel would be grateful and eager and pliant, not an unappealing prospect, and truth be told he could use the break to relax.

 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

 

When Crowley summoned him, Castiel went instantly, unhesitating, relieved.

Crowley was sitting on his bed. “Hello, darling.” He smiled. From what Castiel could see, it was a real smile, not a threat, and he took a tentative step toward Crowley.

“Hello.”

Crowley picked up his glass of scotch and tapped it with his fingertips. He beckoned to Castiel benignly. “You didn’t exactly leave on the best of terms.”

Castiel was silent, but he sat when Crowley patted the bed beside him.

“I wanted to make sure you understood that our deal, our arrangement is intact. Both parts of it. We’re still partners, and you’re still welcome here.”

He gave him a glance, apprehensive. “Crowley, I’m not going to let you hurt Sam and Dean.”

“Fine,” he said, and shrugged.

Castiel frowned. “I’m not.”

Crowley took a drink and set down the glass. “I heard you.”

“I don’t want to fight.”

“Do you see me fighting?”

“No, but…” Castiel was sure that it couldn’t be this easy; Crowley couldn’t have made a reversal that quickly.

“Then drop it.”

“Crowley,” he said, uncomfortable.

“Angel. Drop it.”

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, nervously. “It’s just that… it’s not that I don’t… It’s not because…”

“Angel.” Crowley placed his hand on Castiel’s knee reassuringly. “I understand. You’re wrong about them, but I understand. Long as they stay out of my way, they’re your problem. All right?”

Finally, he nodded. “Yes.”

Crowley reached over and caressed his cheek, with the back of his hand. He closed his eyes, leaning into the touch, accepting the comfort while it lasted. “Are you still afraid, kitten?” His voice was soft, gentle.

“Yes,” he replied, feeling his chest tighten.

“Don’t be. You’re safe.”

He opened his eyes and looked at Crowley, startled by his unexpected kindness. “Do… are we… you’ve forgiven me?”

“No,” he said, and then smiled. “But I’m satisfied that you’ll make it up to me. Given time.”

“I…”

“Am I wrong?”

“No,” Castiel replied hastily, shaking his head, worried.

“Then come on.” Crowley took his hand and pulled him, gently, toward him.

“Crowley,” he said, tilting his head in confusion.

“Stop,” Crowley said, and helped him climb onto his lap, one knee on either side, facing him. “Yes, king or no, king.”

“Yes, king.”

“Good, kitten.” Crowley pulled him down and kissed him, and for a moment he was transfixed by the heat and power of it. He sank into the kiss, pressing himself close.  “Oh, pet, I missed that,” Crowley said softly, close to his ear.

“Yes, king,” he agreed, just above a whisper, and kissed Crowley again.

 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

 

They lay together on the bed, worn out, Castiel resting his head on Crowley’s chest as Crowley paged through a book on autopsy. He felt at peace, whole, even though nothing had really changed, even though he knew the harmony would be short-lived. Crowley had one arm around him, and he felt safe, and while it lasted, Castiel was content to let it be.  

He lifted his head slightly and looked up at him. “Crowley,” he said, tentatively, “if the Winchesters think you’re alive, what – how should I – ”

Crowley sighed. He stroked Castiel’s arm. “Honestly, kitten? Just stay away from them entirely.” Castiel looked away, frowning; he knew it was a suggestion he would disregard, but he kept it to himself. Crowley pulled him a little closer, kissed his forehead. “Now either stop talking about Dean Winchester or get out of my bed. This is hardly relaxing.”

“All right.” Castiel snuggled into him, smiled, stopped talking.

 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

 

_Please. I'm begging you, Castiel. Just kill the Winchesters._

_No._

_Fine. Then I'll do it myself._

_If you kill them, I'll just bring them back again._

_No you won't. Not where I'll put 'em. Trust me._

_I said no. Don't worry about them._

_Don't worry about – what,  like Lucifer didn't worry? Or Michael? Or Lilith, or Alastair, or Azazel didn't worry? Am I the only game piece on the board who doesn't underestimate those denim-wrapped nightmares?_

_Just find Purgatory. If you don't, we will both die, again and again, until the end of time. The Winchesters won't get to you._

_Let ‘em get to me – I’ll  tear their friggin' hearts out!_

 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

 

Castiel slammed into the lab, fury overcoming any reservations he had. He stormed at Crowley. “You sent _demons_ after them?”

“You kill my hunters, why can’t I kill yours?”

“They’re my friends!”

“You can’t have friends. Not anymore. I mean, my God, you’re losing it!”

Castiel shook his head. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah, you’re the very picture of mental health.” Crowley gave him a look of utter disdain. “Come on. You don't think I know what this is all about?”

“Enlighten me,” he responded. He knew approximately what Crowley was going to say, knew how he would have to react; he let his rage build like a shield against whatever insult or blow Crowley would throw at him.

“The big lie,” Crowley sneered. “The Winchesters still buy it. The good Cas, the righteous Cas. As long as they still believe it, you get to believe it.” He looked Castiel up and down, scornful, and continued mockingly, “Well, I’ve got news for you, kitten: A whore is a whore is a whore-”

Crowley hadn’t even finished the sentence before Castiel was gripping him by the lapels of his black wool coat and slamming him against the wall. Crowley’s eyes went wide with terror for a moment before he tried to compose himself, and Castiel stared him down, made fearless with anger. “I’m only gonna say this once,” he growled. “If you touch a hair on their heads, I will tear it all down.” He shoved him into the wall again, gritting his teeth. “Our arrangement – everything.” Finally he released him, but he kept his eyes on Crowley’s. The king’s arrogance was, for the moment, gone, only hurt and the instinctive craven calculation of the demon remaining, and Castiel felt an instinctive revulsion and contempt. “I’m still an angel,” he said coldly, “and I will bury you.” He vanished.

He landed in Bobby Singer’s house. It was empty, for the moment, and he sat down on one of the tables, folding his overcoat around himself tightly, fiddling with one of the relics on the table. He inhaled the smell of Old Spice and whiskey, familiar if not entirely pleasant, and began to calm down. He would stand his ground for the Winchesters, and without a doubt, now Crowley knew it.

He told himself that Sam and Dean were protected, that everything was going as planned, or close enough. The feeling that a deadly faultline was opening in him, that he was breaking apart inside, was irrelevant at best. He was not lost. He was making the right decision, and if it made him feel as though he was drowning, that was to be expected; he was an angel, and disobedience was as unnatural as breathing underwater would be to a human.

When he had the souls from Purgatory, he thought, perhaps he could repair it, the way he repaired his vessel.

The prayer came just as he stood up to leave. Dean Winchester was calling him, a pull more powerful than words, and he went to him, almost without hesitation, almost untroubled by the dread of Crowley’s possessive anger.

He found them still in Ellsworth’s cabin. Strange. “Hello,” he said.

“Johnny on the spot,” Bobby remarked.

Castiel wasn’t sure who Johnny was, or which spot he was on, but he thought he probably shouldn’t ask. “You’re still here.”

“Yeah, we had to bury the bodies,” Sam said. Maybe it was a reference to Twister, and Johnny was a famous player? Twister had spots. But ‘on the spot’ meant something different, didn’t it? He tried to stop thinking about it.

“And we found a little whiskey.” Despite the smile Dean sounded tense, a little uncomfortable with him; he was probably to blame for that. “Thanks for coming.”

 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

 

“You should've come to us for help, Cas,” Dean said. Castiel could feel his hurt, his frustration, and it anguished him that he was the source of it.

“Maybe,” he conceded.

He felt Crowley’s presence an instant before the sound came. “It's too late now.” With a howling violence like the leveling of cities, a cyclone of demonic power descended, so close he could feel the shaking of the ground from its roar. Profound, immobilizing fear lodged like a blade in his stomach. Crowley was angry; the earth trembled. “I can't turn back now. I can't.”

“It’s not too late,” Dean insisted. “Damn it, Cas, we can fix this!”

“Dean, it's not broken,” Castiel said firmly, angrily, holding his ground. But he saw it in his face: Dean was ready to fight him, to fight for him. Stubborn, lethally, beautifully stubborn, idealistic Dean Winchester – Crowley was going to tear him and his family to pieces before his eyes, while Castiel stood trapped in a ring of holy fire, unable to stop him. “Run. You have to run, now! Run!” The Winchesters fled, Dean last, looking back at him with conflicted sadness before bolting out the door.

He took a breath, steeled himself. When Crowley came in, composed, with his snark and smugness, Castiel was ready for him, ready to play his part. It was getting easier, pretending. He looked at Crowley, steadily, as though the floor hadn’t dropped out from under him at the mere idea of his anger. “My, my. Playing with fire again.” When Crowley snapped his fingers, Castiel did not let his expression change. The holy fire dissipated.

“If you touch the Winchesters – ”

Crowley disappeared, reappeared behind him. “Please. Heard you the first time. I promise, nary a hair on their artfully tousled heads.” He was conciliatory now, polite, salesmanlike. Castiel was suspicious of this tone, but it was better than anger, probably less dangerous than his usual, less-affected affectionate condescension. “Besides, I think they’ve proved my point for me. It’s always your friends, isn’t it, in the end?” Castiel looked away, his discomfort getting the better of him. Crowley wouldn’t be acting so congenial if he’d already sensed Castiel’s impending betrayal, but if Castiel looked at him, he’d see it in his eyes. “We try to change, try to improve ourselves, it’s always our friends who gotta claw into our sides and hold us back. But you know what I see here? The new God and the new devil working together – ”

“Enough,” Castiel said, in a tone of unmistakable threat. He knew where this conversational turn led, knew he couldn’t let himself be drawn in. Intimidation was the right move. “You stop talking and get out of my sight.”

“Well.” Crowley looked genuinely hurt, confused, and Castiel tried not to let his surprise show on his face. “Glad I came. You’re welcome, by the way.” The reproach wasn’t patronizing, as it usually was, but wounded. Castiel wasn’t just holding his ground, he was shutting Crowley out entirely, and he repeated to himself that he was making the right decision as Crowley stepped past him and walked away. Castiel stayed where he was.

“You know the difference between you and me?” Crowley asked, his voice low and unhappy. “I know what I am. What are you, Castiel?” At that, Castiel turned slowly to look back at him, at the one person in heaven, on earth, or in hell who knew the whole answer to that question. He seemed to himself suddenly raw, exposed, breakable. But Crowley must not have been able to see it, because he only continued, delivered his parting shot. “And what exactly are you willing to do?” Then he was gone, and Castiel, angel of the Lord, leader of the armies of heaven, devoted pet of the king of hell, was alone with the darkness and the quiet.

He finally let himself feel the full weight of it, the full crushing burden he had taken on, and he sat down on the floor of the empty house and prayed to his absent, silent father for answers, or for strength. But of course there was no reply. There never was.

Everything depended on him. An angel, fallen, fallen further and harder than he ever thought possible – _a whore is a whore is a whore –_  held the fate of the world in his hands, and he could only guess at the right path. He was alone. It was too much. He wanted to disappear, to lose himself in the intricacies and patterns of creation, to surrender, to quit. But he had come too far for that. He had no choice.

After the litany of sins he had already committed, before the lies and betrayals yet to come, perhaps one more wrong wouldn’t matter.

He went to hell, and he waited for Crowley.


	21. the darkness yielding

Crowley stepped through the door and looked at Castiel, sitting on his bed. He held the door open and gestured. “Out.”

“Crowley.” Castiel stood up, approached, took a breath to speak.

Crowley shook his head. “Now.”

“Your majesty, please.” Castiel reached for Crowley’s hand, plaintive, contrite.

“No.” Crowley caught his wrist before he could touch him, wrenched it upward, and continued, the venom in his voice increasing with every word. “I’m through with you, kitten. Understand? You’ve served your purpose, such as it was. Now you’re dismissed. Out.” He flung Castiel toward the door, with enough force that Castiel was thrown off balance. Castiel looked at him, stunned to silence, and then backed out of the room. Crowley closed the door in his face, and he stood bewildered out in the hallway, alone.

He took a few steps and then stopped, feeling oddly numb, not sure how to proceed. Crowley was through with him. He had served his purpose.

He tried to think, but he was spinning. He shook his head. He still had work to do. They still had to find Purgatory. He tried to leave hell, but for a moment he lacked the will even to move, even to spread his wings. He stood still, collected himself. Find Purgatory. It was all that mattered now.

 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

 

Gathering his determination, Castiel strode into the infernal research division as though he belonged there.

“Tisiphone.” He interrupted the colorful woman/vengeance deity as she talked to two other similar beings. All three looked up at him, startled.

“Oh! This – this is – this is Castiel. Of course you know this is Castiel. Castiel, this is my sister Maggie and our sibling Al. We’re – are you here to – do you need something? Does Crowley – I mean, does the king know you’re – ”

“I’m here on his behalf.” Castiel wasn’t sure whether this was a lie. He continued quickly. “I need an update on any leads we have into Purgatory. He doesn’t have time at the moment to… debrief me.”

Al and Maggie started snickering, and Castiel was not entirely sure why. Tisiphone was apparently done listening and had started flipping through one of the stack of notebooks beside her on the desk.

“Are… you…” Castiel frowned.

“Moishe Campbell,” Tisiphone said, then looked over at Al expectantly.

“Campbell?” Castiel sat down at the desk, interested.

“Mhmm.” Al nodded, leaned their head back, their eyes flickering back and forth under their closed eyelids as though reading or dreaming. They began to speak in a clipped, quick monotone. “Moishe Campbell. Hunter. Wife Irit, son Shmuel, daughter Eidel, New York. Deceased June 1937. The papers of Irit Campbell, collected by the Jewish Historical Society of New York, personal correspondence box 7A, reproduced and archived by the hunter genealogy division. Letter from daughter Eidel on her investigation of Moishe’s final hunt, several important details redacted, includes mention of a realm inhabited only by monsters, and something that escaped. No further reference to this event in surviving letters. Correspondence frequently cites Moishe Campbell’s journal. Last known location, Campbell family compound. No known reproductions.”

“Thank you,” Castiel said, rather awed by this virtuoso display. Al gave him a crooked, charming grin and looked away.

“You should see them on trivia night,” Maggie said. “We’re not allowed to play against demons anymore.”

Castiel smiled, then nodded to Tisiphone. “Are there any other leads?”

Tisiphone gestured mutely to the entire stack of notebooks.

“But that’s the only one you need right now,” Maggie reassured helpfully.

“All right. Thank you for your help.”

“No problem, honey muffin.”

Castiel blinked, but before he could think of anything to say to that the three of them were already immersed in some new activity. He waved and disappeared to earth.

Moishe Campbell. New York. Campbell family compound.

Castiel sighed.

 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

 

He felt a little pang of surprised sadness when he arrived at Bobby Singer’s house and found it warded against him. Although Bobby’s imperfect grasp of Enochian warding meant he could still enter freely, the intention – especially the knowledge that Dean had agreed to it – still slowed and dismayed him.

The house was silent and dark. Dean was asleep on the couch beneath the windows, a shotgun at his side; he could never sleep without a weapon within arm’s reach. The moonlight glinted on the empty beer bottles on the table. Castiel watched him for a moment, wavering, wishing he could wake him up and somehow fix all this, somehow explain himself so Dean could understand. He tore himself away and went into the next room, where Bobby kept the books.

It didn’t take him long to find Moishe’s journal, which was a surprise, because Bobby’s organizational system looked haphazard at first glance. He looked around briefly for Eidel’s, but it seemed her journal hadn’t made it to the Campbell compound. He slipped Moishe’s book under his coat, then stopped. He knew he should go, but the moment his immediate task was completed – the journal found – he had found himself reeling and shattered again. So there he stood, in the darkness of Bobby’s house, trying to hold himself together.

Finally he went out to the living room, where Dean was sleeping. He gathered up the empty beer bottles and food wrappers and threw them away, silent and invisible; he got a clean glass and poured the last of the whiskey in it, threw that bottle away too. He stood looking down at Dean, and all at once he made himself visible, allowed the small jolt of awareness to wake the man up. He flailed awake, immediately tense, and Castiel stayed still, waited for him.

“Hello, Dean,” he said quietly.

 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

 

Castiel paused, then knocked on Crowley’s bedroom door lightly. After a few moments Crowley opened it.

“Angel.”

“I… have news.”

“I assumed.”

“I’ve found a lead.”

“Really.”

Castiel took out the journal and held it out to Crowley. Crowley didn’t take it. “It’s… in here,” Castiel said, frowning in slight confusion.

Crowley shrugged, rolled his eyes. “Then get to reading, angel. I have my own business to attend to.”

“All right.” Castiel hovered, awkwardly, uncertain of how to end the conversation.

Crowley turned. “Out,” he said curtly.

Castiel blinked and began to back away, pained. “I’m sorry – ”

A slim, half-dressed demon slipped out past Crowley and then past Castiel, eyeing him, almost hungrily. He turned back to Crowley and winked. “Bye, your majesty.” Then he disappeared in a red puff of smoke.

Crowley opened the door further and stepped back. “You can use the room if you like, pet. I’m leaving for a bit. Errands to run.”

Castiel looked at him, surprised. “Thank you, king.”

After a beat, Crowley cracked an amused smile. “Well, don’t just stand there.”

Castiel winced. “I’m sorry, king.” He went in and sat down at the table, opened the journal, then glanced back at Crowley, who was standing watching him, the amusement faded, just a strange conflicted look on his face. Castiel gave him a slight, wan smile. “Bye, your majesty.” Half-joking.

Crowley just looked at him, too long, as though he were on the verge of speaking but held himself back. “Good work,” he said finally, briskly, and turned to leave.

 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

 

Castiel knocked on the door. He wished there were someone else to take this part for him; usually Dean or Crowley would help him when a job required talking to people, but Dean was off limits for obvious reasons, and Crowley – he felt reluctant to ask Crowley for anything at the moment. Besides, a little voice – one he tried very hard not to hear – said that doing this himself would be more useful to Crowley, which was something very important for him to be right now.

The door opened. “Hello, Judah.”

The man stood there blinking, confused, in his robe. “Do… I know you?”

“No.”

“…So what – ”

“I’m here to ask you about Howard Lovecraft.”

“ _Howard_ Lovecraft?” Judah was giving him the look that Dean gave him when he tried to use a human idiom. He tried to remember what Crowley had told him about these situations.

Flattery. “I understand you’re an expert.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say _expert_ – I’m – who are you?”

Castiel should definitely have worked that out before he knocked. “Oh. I’m… a reporter. For the newspaper.”

“What newspaper?”

“The… freelance. My name is Cecil Palmer. Can I come in?”

Judah leaned against the door, skeptical. “Freelance. And you’re here… at my house, at 7 in the morning, because you’re reporting on Lovecraft. Howard. Lovecraft.”

“Specifically, the events of March 10, 1937.”

At that, Judah’s eyes lit up. He let Castiel in. “Oh yeah, the ritual! I can tell you all about that.”

 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

“Crowley?” Castiel knocked on the door, which was not completely closed.

“Come in. Why’d’you think I left the door open, feathers-for-brains?”

Castiel edged into the room and tilted back and forth nervously. Crowley was sitting on his bed with a book in his lap. “I have news.”

“Do tell.” Crowley smiled. He seemed in a better mood now. Castiel wished he knew whether that was a good or a bad thing.

He brought the photograph to Crowley. “This woman.”

“What about her?”

“She’s from Purgatory.”

Crowley sat up, his interest piqued. “ _From_ Purgatory?”

“There was a ritual. She fell through. Well, not her. She’s a vessel.”

“I’m clear on the concept. Where is she now?”

“Safehouse. We have to find her. I could have gone after her myself, but I thought – ”

“No, no.” Crowley raised his hand and nodded. “You were right to bring it to me, pet. How did you get this picture, anyway?”

“There was… her son.”

“Her son just gave you her picture?”

“No. Your researchers sent me after a journal, and there were letters… It’s a long story.”

“Busy day.”

Castiel nodded and looked down. “Talked to several people,” he said, not exactly nonchalantly, and Crowley laughed.

“That must have been terrifying.”

“Her son doesn’t like me very much. He kept calling me a liar. The orderlies made me leave, I had to go back and steal the picture out of his belongings.”

“Well. Long as you got what you were there for.” Crowley smiled. “You can go get her tomorrow.” He handed the picture back to Castiel, then caught his sleeve when he turned to go.

Castiel tilted his head warily, frowning. “Crowley?”

“King.”

“King?”

“Close the door.”

“I – ”

“It’s all right, kitten. Close the door.”

Castiel closed the door.


	22. but the story's still the same

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short, strange one - just how it fit together this time. Only a little more to go.

****

“Castiel, it's Sam. Um, so look, I don't know if you're in on this whole Ben-Lisa thing, but if you have any heart whatsoever, bring 'em back to us, man. C'mon. Please. I'm begging you. I am begging you, do you understand?”

Castiel stood silent and invisible in Bobby Singer’s yard, watching Sam leave, hearing the sounds from inside the garage. His face burned, his hands shook. Now he understood why Crowley had changed his mind so quickly, had been so obviously pleased to have him back, even after he had, supposedly, served his purpose. He had taken Ben and Lisa, and then Castiel, crushed by his rejection and anxious to return to his good graces, had gone to his bed. While Dean was desperate, frantic in the search for his kidnapped family, Castiel slept in the arms of their kidnapper. Of course Crowley let him stay, had been so gentle with him: his every moment of pleasure, every feeling of gratitude and safety was a stinging indictment.

When he felt able to control himself, he appeared in Crowley’s lab.

“Sweetie. You look tense.”

“You took Ben and Lisa.”

“Oh… that.” Crowley smirked.

 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

 

Between Balthazar and Dean and Crowley, it was becoming very difficult for Castiel to focus on the hunt for Eleanor Visyak.  

_You wanna stop me? Then find friggin’ Purgatory!_

_Are you in flagrante with the king of Hades?_

_Why don't you go back to Crowley and tell him that I said you can both kiss my ass?_

Castiel waited in the doorway, looking down at the dying woman on the hospital bed. Dean was grieving already. He had tried to keep a brave face on for her son as long as he could, but the boy knew now, saw it in the doctors’ faces, in Dean’s trembling hands. Castiel stepped forward. Dean looked up.

“What do _you_ want?”

“Dean, listen – ”

“What do you want me to say? She'll be dead by midnight.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t care.” Dean glared at him fiercely, and he paused there for a moment. “It’s too little, too late.”

“Okay. Well, regardless, I’m not here for you.” Castiel moved to Lisa’s side. This, at least, didn’t have to happen. This, at least, Castiel could fix.

 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

 

He found Eleanor Visyak in her safehouse in Northern California. She had warded the house, but she could have been more careful; he could feel her presence from inside, and he lay in wait until she went to her car.

He brought her to Crowley in some abandoned warehouse, and Crowley set immediately to work.

“We’re looking for Purgatory. You’re gonna help us with that.”

“Oh, is that so!” She laughed.

Crowley smiled condescendingly. “I’m afraid it’s not your decision, darling.”

“You’d be surprised,” she responded.

“I really wouldn’t.”

Castiel stood by, his hands folded, and tried not to watch. He could feel Crowley’s attention on him through all the blood and torture and screaming, feel his enjoyment both of the suffering he was inflicting and of Castiel’s pain at witnessing it. He was euphoric in his savagery; when it became clear that Eleanor would never break, he turned to Castiel, wiping the blood off his face with his sleeve, openly delighted. When he averted his eyes, dread twisting his stomach, Crowley laughed and pulled him forward. “Come on. Don’t get to keep your hands clean on this one, kitten.”

Castiel looked at him, pleading, but Crowley was enjoying his conflicted state too much to steady him. He turned his attention to Eleanor, who was a physical wreck, but still glared at him balefully when he looked at her. “I’m sorry,” he said softly, and then he began.

 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

 

After Castiel joined the fray, it wasn’t long before they had every detail of the ritual, Eleanor’s blood collected in a basin. When Castiel finally pulled back, Crowley had to catch him and slow his collapse to the floor. Eleanor seized the opportunity and fled, bloodied and broken, staggering out the door in a panic; Castiel tried to point this out to Crowley, but he was not interested. “Let her go. We’re done with her anyway.”

“She’s served her purpose,” Castiel suggested, a bit more bitterly than he would have let on if he were fully in control.

Crowley chuckled, surprised. “You’re still broken up over that, pet?”

He just gave Crowley a look. Crowley patted his shoulder goodnaturedly.

“Come on. We’ve got plenty of time before the eclipse tomorrow. Let me make it up to you.”

“Don’t have all the ingredients,” Castiel objected.

Crowley sighed. “Fine. You go after Helen, or Karen, or whatever Purgatory soccer mom’s name was, clean up. I’ll get the virgin blood. Then we’ll figure out what’s next.” He leaned down and kissed Castiel, tilted his chin up a little gently. “Hey. Look at me, angel.” He kissed him again. “I didn’t… mean what I said. All right?”

Castiel nodded, averted his eyes. Crowley helped him up. “Thank you.” He immediately lost his balance, and Crowley caught him again.

“You’re hopeless.” Crowley smiled, and Castiel felt that familiar wave of contented warmth, followed immediately by sadness so intense it took his breath for a moment. Whatever Crowley said now, whether he wanted Castiel or not, the path was already in place. The ending was ordained. Castiel would step into the role his father had abdicated; he would conquer his headstrong brother and humble all who defied him; the king of hell would kneel or be destroyed. His feelings were irrelevant. It was all irrelevant now.

He left without saying anything further.

 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

 

Bobby and the boys had somehow managed to beat him to Eleanor. She died slumped on the ground of an alleyway, just a few blocks from the warehouse, with Bobby clutching her hand. That was when Castiel had done it, had crossed the one line he hadn’t allowed even Crowley to cross: he had harmed the Winchesters. He broke Sam with a touch, left Dean helpless in the face of his brother’s torment, and abandoned them both with nary a look back.

They had forced his hand.

He went to Crowley’s lab, sat waiting in silence. He had thought of going to Crowley’s room, but something had changed in him, finally. He felt numb, immobilized, stunned somehow. Acceptance, he supposed. There was no more time for sentimentality or confusion. He was singular again, whole again in his focus and his faith. He wouldn’t go to Crowley. He wouldn’t watch over Sam and Dean. He would wait for the eclipse, and then he would become God.


	23. to burn your kingdom down

_Flee or die._

_What a brave little ant you are…_

_You need a firm hand. You need a father._

_And he who lies in my name shall choke on his own false tongue, and his poisonous words shall betray him._

_Once you were my favorite pets, before you turned and bit me._

_Be obedient, children._

_If you rise up, I will strike you down._

_For I am the Lord your God..._

_Rejoice._

 

Castiel, former angel of the Lord, now the ruler of creation, landed in the shabby little trailer where Crowley, former king of hell, was holed up in fear of him. Hiding from him – as though anything could be hidden from him. He could feel the warding – Crowley’s Enochian was perfect, he noted with something like pride – buzzing against the skin of his vessel, but it was nothing. Powerless. Just like Crowley himself. The TV turned off with a wave of his hand. He smiled.

“Hello, Crowley. You look stressed.”


	24. epilogue: the holy or the broken hallelujah

The bees hummed lazily in the blazing summer sun. Castiel watched them, mostly quiet in reverence, sometimes laughing with delight – they spiraled and tumbled joyously through the world, the bright orange of pollen collecting on their fuzzy legs and abdomens as they visited the flowers. Each buzzing little mind, all colors and light, all purpose. He followed them, crouched beside their hollowed out tree, peered inside at the honey and all the tiny perfect creatures whose days flowed around it. He felt pride for them, these bustling workers, their patterned, structured little lives, their home with its array of beautiful hexagons. He wondered at the hexagons, their precision.

He would tell Dean about the hexagons. Maybe he would understand. He couldn’t tell Crowley yet. Crowley wouldn’t care about the hexagons, anyway, even though he would understand what they meant to him, why they mattered. Castiel was sure of it.

Things would be different now. Even if Crowley forgave him for what he’d done, what had snapped between them was irrevocably broken. He could see the string of events that had led him to today – every wrong turn on his part, every manipulation on Crowley’s, like a roadmap of good intentions and bad choices.

Still he could not shake the feeling that something sacred, something pure and untainted by any ill intention or calculation, had passed between them. When he had knelt before Crowley, bathed in light, and Crowley had touched him, kissed him, whispered praise into his ear, he had attained a peace and transcendent wholeness that had been absent for so long he had barely remembered he’d ever felt it.

 And now, again, it was gone. He felt its pull, the pull of grace, some essential piece of himself he had given to Crowley and could not take back, like a whisper in the silences between his thoughts. He did not sink beneath its weight. He managed to convince himself, almost every time he noticed it, that this was a tension he could live with. That what Crowley had done to him, what Crowley had seduced him into doing, negated all the rest. Almost every time, he reasoned it away.

But sometimes he would catch sight of a demon, and he would follow them, curiously, just as he followed the bees. He stayed unseen – the easiest way to avoid conflict – and on those occasions when he glimpsed Crowley, he smiled to himself, and he found somewhere else to be before Crowley noticed his presence. He knew there would be a time when he had to face Crowley again, but it wasn’t that time yet. He wasn’t ready. He wondered what he would say.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY. I've been trying to write this story for so long that I didn't think it would ever be over, but it is! I appreciate all of you who have read and commented and talked to me about this thing, for helping me drag it out of my head into the world, despite the best efforts of Certain Protagonists to derail everything always. Thank you for reading!


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